Do You Feel Like a Young God?
by onceandfuturewarlock
Summary: "If I am to keep your secret," Agravaine's touch glided upward now, tugging light but insistent at the waistband of Merlin's trousers, "then I do deserve some form of recompense." / S4 AU. Set right after S4, E03. Blackmail, non-con, dub-con, magic reveal, Merlin!whump.
1. Do You Feel Like a Young God?

"Do you feel like a young god?  
You know the two of us,  
We're just young gods.  
And we'll be flying through the streets,  
With the people underneath,  
And we'll be running, running, running,  
Again."

\- _Young God,_ Halsey

* * *

It never got better.

Not—not _really_ —no matter how many batty old sorcerers bent on revenge—no matter how many soldiers and Saxons—no matter how many speeches spouted off about destiny—no matter how many spells he learned—how many misinformed druids dropped to their knees when they spotted him—how many sleepless nights stood at his back—how many times he'd ended up exactly like this, dragging in breath after agonizing, hard-won breath, trying desperately not to think about the burning pain in his side—

No. It never really got better.

But Merlin was getting a damn sight better at hiding it.

He smothered another hiss of pain, pressing a pale, shaking hand to his ribs—the skin, beneath his torn jacket and tunic, was warm and sticky and slick, fingers squelching wetly upon contact.

Great. Wonderful, really. Just perfect.

That damn assassin really hadn't known when to give up, had he?

Not that it mattered so much anymore—said assassin wasn't a threat to anyone with the way Merlin had left him, lying facedown at the bottom of the ravine some three miles off, with broken neck and glassy, still-open eyes—and, unless Merlin was looking to join him in eternal sleep, he needed to get moving.

He pushed himself up on his knees with one hand—he didn't quite dare take the other one off his ribs yet, didn't even want to think about the burst, bleeding skin beneath his shirt—of course he'd have to get a better look at things when he got back to his own chambers—but he was absolute rubbish with healing spells—might be best to just do it the old-fashioned way—

He shifted, prepared to stand, and another bolt of pain tore through him like a knight's lance—a sharp gasp slipped from between his tightly clenched teeth, hard as he tried to suppress it, and little white stars burst suddenly behind his eyes—for a minute, the whole world tilted, and he thought he might drop right back to the ground—no—no, he was all right—he could handle it—just a bit of pain—gods knew he'd had worse—

Maybe he could call Kilgharrah—save himself the long, painful trek—he'd chased the assassin deep into the Darkling Woods—much deeper than he'd intended, actually—the castle spires were but a distant, dark sillehoutte, standing stark against the bright, full moon—but as long as there was breath in his body, no lowlife sword-for-hire was getting anywhere near his king, no matter how far he had to go to catch them—he drew in a breath, and tipped back his head—the dragonlord summons lay ready on his tongue—no—wait—that wouldn't work, would it? As much as he wanted to, he couldn't risk it—suppose the palace guards actually decided to do their jobs for once, and happened to glimpse a great bloody dragon swooping in the skies over their heads—oh, he didn't even want to think about it—especially if it was the dragon he'd claimed Arthur had slain a good six years ago—

No—no, he'd just have to go it alone this time. Just like he had last time. And the time before last. And the time before that, and the time before that, and the time before—

Merlin pressed his lips together, and got to his feet—everything tilted around him again, going in circles for several minutes, but he could handle it, he could handle it, he'd had worse—it was no use feeling sorry for himself, anyway—it was better this way, when he stopped to think about it—it was better for him to be alone—at least this way, no one else got hurt—not like last time—not like—

No.

No, no, he wasn't thinking about that—he _wasn't_ —he wouldn't—he wouldn't think about it—he wouldn't think about any of it—he wouldn't think about the Callieach, white-haired and withered, her expression unreadable as she stared him down from across that ancient, crumbling stone altar—your time among men is not yet over—and he wouldn't think about Lancelot, or his straight-backed, confident stride into the world beyond the veil—he'd never stopped—never so much as faltered, never thought twice, never hesitated—he'd always been the bravest of them all—the noblest—he didn't deserve to—not like that—not for—not for Merlin—he wasn't worth it—he wasn't worth—Lancelot—he shouldn't have—he shouldn't have—

No.

He wouldn't think about it.

Merlin drew a shaky, shuddering breath, and wiped a hand across his eyes—maybe that would banish the burn behind them. He just needed to get back to his chambers—maybe he'd actually be able to fall asleep tonight—

So he went, on foot and in silence, head bent against the brisk, bitter winds that stirred the leaves and tossed his hair—until his legs trembled, and throbbed with exhaustion—until every step had his ribs screaming—until his hands were numb with cold, and he'd drawn his thin jacket tight about him, shivering violently—whether from frost or fever, he didn't know, and didn't particularly care—until he stood at last in Gaius' warm, darkened chambers, easing the door closed behind himself.

The fire burned low in the hearth, and what he wouldn't give to just—just collapse into the seat by the grate—just _sit_ , and not do anything, and not think—but his palms were stained, the skin stiff and crusty with drying blood—and his head felt like he'd just gone a few hundred rounds with several dozen sorcerers, and he knew if he didn't take care of it now, he'd probably regret it come sunrise.

Perhaps he could wake Gaius—oh, he knew the old man would likely be furious with him, likely fret and fuss over him, likely scold him for going after the assassin without telling his mentor where he'd gone—oh, yes, that was a conversation that would go perfectly— _by the way, Gaius, I'll be in the Darkling Woods saving Arthur's ungrateful backside for the fourth time this week—don't wait up—_ but at least then, he could get the wound seen to—besides, after the night he'd just had, he felt, childishly, that he'd quite like a bit of fussing, just this once—a sympathetic ear, at least, would be nice, he couldn't deny that—

But then he saw Gaius, deep in slumber and snoring softly in his shabby, rickety cot—pale eyes shut tight, wrinkled face smooth and untroubled in sleep—Merlin felt his lips twitch up into a small, fond smile at the sight, a great rush of affection for the old man swelling suddenly in his chest—no, he couldn't bring himself to wake Gaius, not when he looked like that—so peaceful, so relaxed, so far removed from the concerns and anxieties plaguing his waking hours—the poor man had been so worried about Merlin for so long now—ever since they'd come back from the Isle of the Blessed—ever since Lancelot—

No. He wouldn't think about it.

Merlin walked past the sleeping Gaius—forced himself on, really—his body had turned leaden and sluggish with exhaustion and pain sometime in the last few minutes—he dropped gratefully into the seat by the fire—just for a minute, he promised himself, just for a minute—he let his eyes fall closed, welcoming the blissful darkness awaiting him behind them—if he shifted just slightly to the right, the brunt of the pressure eased off his bleeding ribs, and it wasn't nearly so hard to breathe—and he knew he needed to sit up and get his shirt off and get a better look at the wound, but God, he didn't want to move—he never wanted to move again—if he could just sit here, and just—just _not think_ —not about the Isle or the veil or the Callieach or Lancelot or any of it—but it wouldn't do any good—he could stop thinking about it—if he really tried—it burned, bright and raw, at the back of his mind, always, a steady and eternal fire, but he could—he could douse it—for a while—if he really tried—he knew he could—but it didn't _matter_ , it didn't do any _good_ , because gods knew if he wasn't thinking about Lancelot, he'd just start thinking about everything that had happened after—Gwen's tear-streaked face, and the smoke from the funeral pyre in the courtyard filling his lungs, or the bowed heads of the knights, or—or everything that had happened after that—Uther's gloved hands clasped loosely over his motionless chest, his face still and pale and uncharacteristically peaceful as he breathed his last—and Arthur, eyes rimmed in red and narrowed in rage— _pure evil, pure evil, pure evil,_ he'd called magic _pure evil_ —and no matter how many times Merlin told himself he wouldn't think about it, he knew he'd never be able to forget those words, even if he lived for a thousand years.

Arthur had called magic _pure evil_.

And it was all because of him.

He'd been blind, so blind—so stupid, so painfully arrogant—believing he, and he alone, could bring about the predestined change in Arthur—play fate like a game, pushing everyone about the board like pawns, and all for—all for what? To fulfill his destiny? To save the man who would have gladly rent it apart, had he only known of its existence?

Blind. Stupid. Arrogant.

 _Selfish._

He'd been selfish.

He could have saved Lancelot. If he'd really wanted to, he could have stopped the whole thing—could have thrown him back from the veil, and gone charging through himself—could have tried to bring him back, could have offered himself in his friend's place, as he'd been intending to do with Arthur—a thousand and one roads he could have taken, and instead, he'd waited there where the path divided until it was too late to do anything at all, because he'd been scared, and selfish, and he'd wanted to _live_ —

 _Selfish._ He'd been selfish.

He could have saved Uther. If he'd tried hard enough. He'd sensed the dark magic surrounding the old king—a noxious black cloud, so thick it'd nearly suffocated him, and he—he hadn't realized. He'd been so selfish—so blinded by his hope and his fear, by his faith that this would set him free—

 _Free._ Merlin could have laughed at the thought, if only it didn't hurt so much. _Free._ All those dreams he'd cherished of a world where the druids and sorcerers, the witches and warlocks, the spellbinders and the mages, walked the same streets as ordinary folk, those secret and beautiful hopes held so close to his traitorous, bleeding heart for so long, the wonderful, world-changing destiny he'd actually believed to be _his_ —

He had been selfish, and he had been a fool.

His kind would never be free. _He_ would never be free. He knew that now.

And Arthur—Arthur must never know the truth. Merlin must never tell him what had really been happening all these years. The secrets between them must never come to light. Albion must never be united.

Destiny must never be fulfilled.

Merlin's ribs gave another throb, so sudden and sharp, it pulled him at once back to the present. He leaned forward—suppressing a wince at the pain—and slowly shed his jacket, careful to avoid aggravating the wound any further. He untied his neckerchief, and—here came the hard part—reached for the hem of his tunic. Every movement, every breath, had his side putting up a fierce protest, but at last, he'd pulled the rough, scratchy cloth up over his head, and tossed it to the floor.

He'd have to pick it up, he realized belatedly, before he went up to bed—gods forbid Gaius wake up before him and see the bloodstained fabric strewn on the ground—it'd likely give the poor man a near heart attack—and he already had more than enough to be getting on with—he didn't need to know Merlin had gotten hurt again, especially not since Merlin could take care of it himself.

He sat up a little straighter in the chair—another wave of pain washing over him like water, but he was good at pressing his lips together and counting the seconds until it died down enough for him to think again—and looked down, gingerly probing the bloody gash with eyes and hands alike.

No poison—would have sensed it if there had been—and, from the looks of it, nothing important had been severed, either—that assassin may have known what he was doing with the knife, but he definitely hadn't been counting on facing a sorcerer—right, this wasn't too bad then. He'd be more than a little tender for the next few weeks, but it wasn't anything that he hadn't felt before—a damn sight better than those Serkets, that was for sure.

" _Forbærning,"_ he murmured, and the edges of the wound crawled, like two large, bizarre insects, closer and closer together, skin slowly but steadily sewing itself back up. There—that should do it—now he just needed to drag himself up the stairs and into bed, but he was just so _tired_ —the warmth of the flames in the hearth, their soft crackles and pops, soothed and settled him—he slumped down a little farther in his seat, letting his eyes fall closed—just for a moment— _just a moment—_

The door flew open.

Thick wood crashed against solid stone, tearing through the silence like a sword, shattering it like glass—the world exploded with sound, a deafening burst so loud Merlin could scarcely fathom how Gaius didn't wake—he shot to his feet, one hand going up and out, magic thrumming and thrashing inside his veins—for barely half a moment, he could just make out a figure, tall and dark and indistinct—in the low light of the dying fire, it was impossible to see much more—and then the figure turned around, and they _ran_.

And Merlin ran after them.

He didn't stop to think about it—he didn't _have_ to—he bolted across the room and through the door, out into the wide, airy stone corridor—blood pounding loudly in his ears and heart battering violently at his ribs and the thin soles of his worn-out boots slapping against the stones, and his magic burning and buzzing inside of him—for a second, he saw no one, and he stopped, but— _there_ —just there—around the corner—the mud-spattered hem of a rich purple traveling cloak whipped just out of sight—recognition twitched, briefly, in the back of his mind—he _knew_ that cloak—he quickened his pace—coming up on the corner now—just a few more moments and he'd be—

"Merlin?"

The sound that left his throat was somewhere, he was sure, between a cry and a curse—his heart gave a great bound in his chest, and he whirled round in an instant, hand rising on instinct, power already surging to life inside him—

"You all right there, Merlin?" Sir Leon stared back at him, brows pinched up in a tight, anxious line.

"I—" Merlin flushed, and dropped his hand. Right, okay, excuse—he needed an excuse—something to say, some way to explain—something that would help him _get away_ —he realized, then, too late, that he still didn't have his shirt on. Oh, this was just getting better and better. "I—I was—" He floundered.

Leon raised his eyebrows, but the corner of his mouth twitched as he, obviously unsuccessfully, fought back a smile.

"—sleepwalking. I—I must have been sleepwalking. I do that. Sometimes." All right, so it wasn't perfect, but it was plausible, at least, and gods knew he'd fed Arthur much worse. Just last week, he'd mumbled something to do with scrub brushes and leech tanks, and the king-to-be hadn't bothered to press him.

"I see." Leon's brows rose, if possible, even farther—he could take over for Gaius if he kept this up—and he must have lost the battle against his lips, because a grin settled on his face. He didn't look as though he believed a word. "Sleepwalking. Come on, then, I'll take you back to your chambers." Then, before Merlin could protest, or even think of a way to protest that wouldn't immediately arouse his friend's suspicion, the knight clapped a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder, and steered him straight back the way he'd come.

"I—you don't have to do this, Leon, this _really_ isn't necessary," Merlin tried to shrug off the strong fingers, without much success.

Leon just laughed. "It's all right. It's on the way to my own chambers anyway."

Before Merlin could say anything else, they stopped in front of Gaius' door, still open—the physician himself stood in the center of the room, in nothing but his nightshirt, his cot abandoned, the sheets rumpled, the blankets thrown back—the instant he spotted his ward, he arched his infamous brow.

Merlin flushed again—nearly six years since he'd come to Camelot, and with one glance, Gaius could make him feel like a child all over again.

"Sorry to disturb you, Gaius," Leon pushed his hair back from his face, and smiled at the older man, "just helping Merlin here get back to his room. Merlin," the knight added, lightly squeezing his shoulder, "get some rest, yeah?" He finally released his hold.

With a little nod to Gaius, and one last smile, Leon left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Merlin." It wasn't a question. Not really.

Merlin couldn't keep back a wince—if Gaius would just—just give him a _moment_ —just a moment to gather his thoughts—just a moment to calm his whirling mind—the assassin in the woods and the figure in the doorway and how much had they seen and where had they gone and where were they now and what did they know and who were they going to tell and was there any way he could convince them to keep quiet and how was he even going to find them again and how was he going to figure out who they were and what, was he just supposed to keep an eye out for anyone wearing a purple cloak, and no, that was stupid, and what would Gaius say when he heard about all this and what would Gaius _think_ when he heard about all this and—

 _No._

Merlin swallowed.

No, nothing had really—nothing had really _happened_ , had it? And there was no sense in going around giving Gaius more things to worry about—he'd borne the burden of his ward's secrets far too long now—it wasn't fair for Merlin to try and add yet another weight to those aging, weary shoulders—

"Sleepwalking." Merlin stepped past his guardian, and started up the narrow stairway. The knot in his stomach tightened every single step of the way. "I was sleepwalking."

* * *

Sir Leon didn't wear a purple cloak.

Sir Leon didn't even _like_ the color purple, and anyway, he'd shown up only seconds after the figure had disappeared down the next corridor—even with all his stealth and skill, he couldn't possibly have doubled back behind Merlin in the span of moments—and he wouldn't have done, anyway—Leon was, above all, a straightforward man. Had he seen Merlin, or anyone, using magic within the walls of Camelot, he would have confronted them straight-out—none of this sneaking around, and certainly no pretense.

Gwaine liked the color purple.

But—but he didn't wear a purple cloak, and the figure in the doorway was, by Merlin's split-second estimate at least, a few inches taller than the knight—and anyway, he was no less direct than Leon. He wouldn't have just run away from the situation—Gwaine never ran away from anything.

Couldn't have been Elyan, either—if the figure was taller than Gwaine, they were _definitely_ taller than Elyan, the shortest of the group. Shorter than Percival, though, by at least a head, and nowhere near as broad—so Percival was out, too.

And it wasn't Arthur—there wasn't a doubt in Merlin's mind about that—three days it had been since he'd first seen the figure in the doorway, and Arthur hadn't acted any different—hadn't called for Merlin's execution—hadn't ordered a pyre to be built—hadn't locked him down in the dungeons or accused him of treason or betrayal—no, Arthur was absolutely out of the question.

That was the real problem here—Merlin could list absolutely everyone he knew it wasn't in the space of a single breath, but he hadn't the slightest clue as to who it _was_. And his stupid, overactive, hyper-vigilant, sleep-deprived mind was positively _glorying_ in that—everywhere he looked, he could swear he saw the hem of a purple cloak flashing just out of sight or a dark, indistinct figure lurking down every hall—a faceless, terrifying sillehoutte, just waiting for the right moment to jump out and reveal his secret to anyone who would listen. The few times he'd slipped into sleep since that night, his slumber proved short-lived and easily broken, filled with further visions of the figure in the doorway—visions which usually ended with the scent of his own flesh burning in his nose, as he writhed and twisted helplessly on the pyre or, in the absolute worst version, with Arthur's devastated face as he suffered the pain of betrayal for the second time in as many years.

And it was easier to stay awake, anyway—easier than fighting a mind that wouldn't just shut up or shut down—easier than lying in bed, watching as the moonlight made narrow silver bars along his ceiling and wondering who had it had really been in the doorway that night, and what they were going to do with his secret now that they held it in their hands.

It could be _anyone_.

Merlin gazed again out over the long wooden tables, heart sinking rapidly at the thought—nearly half the kingdom had turned out for Arthur's coronation, and most had stuck around for the celebratory feast afterward—the dining hall stood packed wall-to-wall with nobles of every rank—Lord Rodney over at the far left table, already deep into his third goblet of wine, his cheeks turned ruddy from the drink—no, not him—too stocky—there was Gaius, a few seats down, caught up in conversation with Geoffrey—too rotund, and far too loyal to Camelot to keep silent on a matter like this—Sir Gaheris, and next to him, Sir Galahad—only recently knighted, and both far too short—and too zealously devoted to the pursuit against sorcery to let it alone had they seen him, besides—Sir Rowan, at the next table over, who seemed more interested in his plate than the present company—about the same height, but quite a bit thinner—across from him sat Lord Josef—much too old—

"Merlin?"

Merlin jumped, so badly he nearly dropped the pitcher in his hands—as it was, the wine within sloshed alarmingly—he felt a bit of it splash up over his fingers, but only distantly—when he wiped them dry on the front of his jacket, it was more instinctive than anything—he was a little busy at the moment, considering the man in front of him was—

"Lord Agravaine?"

"Ah—yes," Agravaine licked his lips—he didn't seem to know what he was doing. "Splendid feast, isn't it?"

"I—I suppose?" Merlin tried to keep the confusion out of his voice—tried not to let his feelings show on his face. "Did you—did you need something, Lord Agravaine?" He wrinkled his brow. "More wine?" He held the pitcher aloft—he didn't much like Agravaine—there was just something _off_ about him—but Arthur had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that he was to treat the lord with the greatest possible respect—and loathe as he always was to listen to Arthur, Merlin couldn't bring himself to make things any harder on his friend. Not now.

"Oh—oh, no," Agravaine seemed almost startled by the offer—likely not looking for any favors, then, but it wasn't like he ever took notice of a servant otherwise. "Er, no. Thank you, Merlin." He swallowed, and plucked a piece of lint off one luxurious velvet sleeve.

 _Thank you?_

No, that wasn't right—Agravaine never bothered to thank anyone so far beneath him—and he hadn't kept his disdain for Merlin a secret, not by any means—spent every council meeting staring at him with the strangest expression on his face—always stepped a little closer when they passed in the corridors, just enough to ensure their shoulders brushed—Arthur always seemed conveniently blind to it—

"I—er—" Agravaine licked his lips again and, in the light of a thousand candles, burning on every table, Merlin could see sweat glistening brightly on his pale forehead. "—Merlin, I should like a word with you, if you please."

"A—" Merlin shifted his pitcher from one hand to the other and took a small step back. "—a word?" Unease pricked at him, and he tightened his grip on the pitcher in his hands—what would Lord Agravaine want with _him_?

"Not here," Agravaine added—he threw a glance over his shoulder, and he didn't seem to like what he saw. "Perhaps we could take this somewhere more private?"

"I—" Another jolt of unease, stronger this time, melting to a thick, sour pool in the pit of his stomach—but—but Lord Agravaine looked— _desperate_ — "—I have to attend to Arthur." Yes— _Arthur_ —he seized gratefully upon the excuse—Agravaine wouldn't dare get in the way of his new king—

"Wait." Oh. Well, apparently he _would_ , considering he'd just stepped in front of Merlin, and planted himself there like he didn't plan on moving anytime soon. "You _must_ hear this—Merlin, you must—it—" Agravaine seemed to hesitate, then come to a split-second decision—he leaned forward very suddenly, and so close, his lips brushed Merlin's ear. "—It has to do with Arthur."

 _Arthur._

An awful chill swept over Merlin, insides flooding with something like ice—his blood froze in his veins, throat choked with frost.

It had to be something to do with Morgana—or maybe it was a new threat entirely—maybe the Saxons to the north—he'd been hearing things about them—or maybe it was something to do with Mordred—

Merlin clenched his jaw. "Lead the way."

Without another word, Agravaine turned and strode from the hall—Merlin kept pace easily, barely half a step behind, his mind a thousand miles ahead of the rest of him—it could be just another run-of-the-mill rogue sorcerer, out for revenge—it could be another king, seeking to seize Arthur's lands while he was still untested and inexperienced—or maybe that assassin in the Darkling Woods had an accomplice—maybe Morgana had a mole in the kingdom, and Agravaine had found out who it was—or maybe—

Agravaine drew to a stop before a massive, polished oak door—he slowly twisted the gleaming brass handle set in the shining wood, and threw it open, motioning for Merlin to follow him inside. He'd really meant it then, when he'd said _somewhere more private_ —couldn't get much more private than his bedchamber.

Merlin stepped, a little warily, over the threshold, eyes sweeping every corner of the room—he'd been in here before, of course—one of the perks of being a servant—he could generally wander where he wished with little suspicion—but he hadn't gotten a good look before Elyan had passed by and spotted him—told him if he didn't get down to the training field, Arthur was likely to make him be the target—

The thought of Arthur dragged him from his musings, and he turned to face Agravaine—the lord had, without his notice, somehow, come up behind him and closed the door.

Merlin felt the back of his neck prickle, but he didn't protest—he had to know what the other man knew about Arthur, and he wouldn't get anywhere if he dragged things out.

"Oh, please, sit," Agravaine turned away from the door to face him, fingers still wrapped round the knob—he gestured to the flawless ebony desk in the center of the room, and the handsome, cushioned chairs pushed up on either side of it. "Make yourself comfortable."

Merlin followed his gaze and—

—he froze.

Agravaine was still standing between him and the door.

And draped over the back of the nearest chair was a rich purple traveling cloak.

* * *

 **Notes: HUZZAH this idea has been on my mind for literally EVER and I only just now got around to writing it because I'm a lazy bastard. Oh, God, it's been so long since I actually wrote a multi-chapter fic. am I vibrating.**


	2. He's Got Me Down on Both Knees

"I sold my soul to a three-piece,

And he told me I was holy,

He's got me down on both knees,

But it's the devil that's trying to hold me down."

\- _Hold Me Down,_ Halsey

* * *

 **WARNING: Non-con begins in this chapter, so read at your own discretion.**

* * *

The bolt. The bolt in the door. The bolt in the door just—just _clicked_ , just _snapped,_ just _locked_ —locking him in, Agravaine was locking him in—he couldn't get out he couldn't get out _he couldn't get out_ —he was trapped here and he couldn't escape and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't move and he couldn't speak and he couldn't think, and he couldn't look away from the cloak, its mud-spattered hem still hanging inches from the floor—and he couldn't—he couldn't _breathe_ , and he couldn't—he couldn't—something in his throat, there was something in his throat—heavy and acidic and— _bile_ —and he reached on instinct for his own neck, hands fisting around the rough red kerchief wound round it, but there was no stopping the viscous, vile liquid flooding into his dry mouth—and he tried to push it down, push it back, but it wouldn't go anywhere, and it wouldn't do anything but sit there on his tongue, and it choked him—God, it choked him—and he couldn't breathe, and every time he tried, the air got lost on the way to his lungs, catching and snagging on the razor edges of his own terror because _Agravaine had locked him in_ and _why had Agravaine locked him in_ and _he couldn't get out_ and _he couldn't escape_ and—

The heels of boots clacking against stone. A blurry face in front of him—no, a little bit above him, with the mouth twisted into a frown and a crease between thick, dark brows—and a voice he didn't know calling his name— _Merlin!—Merlin!—Merlin!—_ and a hand—a hand on his arm—warm, and firm, and just above his elbow— _Merlin, are you all right?_

"Are you—?" He could—he could speak again, suddenly—there was nothing in his mouth—and he wanted to spit just to be sure—but—and then he couldn't speak—the words replaced the bile behind his lips, sticking like tar everywhere they could—in the back of his throat and to the roof of his mouth and the tip of his tongue, because they didn't want to be said any more than he wanted to say to them, and he couldn't swallow them down and he couldn't cough them up, and then, all at once, they broke free, and tumbled full-tilt from his tongue. "Are you going to take me to Arthur?" His insides burned the instant he'd said it, and he wondered how soon the rest of him would burn as well.

"Take you to Arthur?" Agravaine repeated, and stepped back a little—the furrows in his forehead deepened and his large hand still hovered, a little hesitantly, around Merlin's arm, but he made no move to close the gap—and then something like comprehension entered his eyes, and his brow cleared. He shook his head, dark hair dragging down his cheek. "No, Merlin. Your secret is safe with me, I promise you that."

Merlin's heart thudded. _Your secret is safe with me. Your secret is safe with me. I promise you that. Your secret is safe with me. I promise you that._

 _Sincere_. He thought maybe Agravaine might have even meant it.

 _So where's the catch?_

"I—I use it only for Camelot," he blurted, because fear made him brave, or as brave as a man like him could be. "Only for Arthur. You must believe me."

"I do," Agravaine said—no hesitation in his voice, in his eyes, in his face. No second thoughts. Oh, gods, he really did mean it. "Come now, Merlin, sit down. You really don't look well, and I'm afraid we have something even more pressing to discuss."

 _Arthur,_ Merlin thought, and he couldn't breathe all over again.

Agravaine ushered Merlin hastily across the room to the desk, his touch light but seemingly everywhere—just the slightest brush from the tips of his thick fingers, all along the warlock's shoulder, his spine, the small of his back.

It didn't occur to Merlin to move away, or protest the contact—he made it to the chair with the cloak still draped over the back, and dropped down gratefully into it, shaking legs finally receiving a rest.

Agravaine didn't sit down.

"Arth—Arthur?" Merlin smothered a cough into his hand, and forced himself to sit up straight.

Agravaine whipped round to look at him, so quickly his cloak swirled out around him in a great dark eddy—there was something suddenly, inexplicably sharp in his gaze. "I beg your pardon?" he said, and it sounded like a challenge.

"Arthur," Merlin repeated, as clearly and loudly as he could—Gaius had been getting on him lately for "mumbling". "You said—you said this was to do with Arthur." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Oh." Agravaine relaxed—and Merlin couldn't think why the mention of his nephew had gotten him so riled to begin with—he'd just have to put that away for later—he'd been doing that a lot lately.

Agravaine rounded the desk, and lowered himself into the empty seat waiting on the other side with a quiet sigh. "Yes. Arthur." He shook his head, lips curling up into a small, grim smile. "I can't think how you've remained at court all this time. At his side. How you've managed to deceive him, Merlin."

"If we could stick to the matter at hand," Merlin interjected sharply, and dug his fingers deep into the cushioned armrest, a tiny groove appearing in the lush velveteen fabric—if he closed his eyes, Arthur's face swam to the forefront of his mind—shocked, shattered, features frozen in his grief, the way he'd looked when Morgana had made her first open bid for the throne—he could not bear to let Arthur hurt like that again—could not bear to be the one who caused him that hurt this time.

"All these years, and Arthur's never discovered," Agravaine said, so softly it sounded almost as if he was speaking to himself. "You must have much practice in keeping secrets."

 _More than I ever wanted._ Merlin didn't say it.

"You must understand the difficulty in keeping such secrets," Agravaine waited until Merlin met his eyes before he continued. "You must understand the difficulty _I_ will have, in keeping such a secret."

Oh, so here it was—now they came to the heart of it—it wasn't about Arthur at all, was it? It had _never_ been about Arthur—Agravaine only wished to know what he could get from this—every bit the self-centered, supercilious lord he'd seemed the day he arrived in Camelot.

"What do you want?" Merlin demanded tiredly—and a little flatly, truth be told.

Agravaine looked at him and—and _laughed_. "Think on it a moment, Merlin. I'm sure you can figure it out." He settled back in his seat with a small, satisfied smile still twisting his lips; there was nothing in his face, and nothing in his voice, that could even begin to explain the meaning in his words.

"—I don't—" Merlin shook his head. "—I don't know what you're—"

"Don't you?" Agravaine countered quietly, and stood from his seat—he strode, every step steady and measured and deliberate, over to Merlin. He leaned down slowly, bent at the waist, and took Merlin's chin in his hands. He kissed him.

Merlin didn't move—he didn't—he didn't know what to _do_ —he could taste the rich, red wine from the feast on the other man's lips, feel the other man's broad fingers, warm on his face, the seat underneath him, the thick velvet of the armrest scrunching beneath his own clenched fingers, but it didn't—it didn't make sense—it couldn't be _real_ —Agravaine's other hand slipping downward, fumbling momentarily with the thin, fraying hem of Merlin's worn tunic, and wide fingers skimming lightly over the bare skin beneath, but it couldn't be real—Agravaine's tongue, hot and wet, clashing fiercely with his own, but it couldn't be real—Agravaine's body against his, pressing ever deeper into him, but it couldn't be real, it couldn't be real, his fingers sliding easily down the naked, slick skin of Merlin's chest, but it couldn't be real—the heel of his open hand grinding into Merlin's groin—

— _it was real_ , and the revelation jolted him, and he—

"NO!"

Merlin shoved Agravaine away—magic, or brute force, or some strange, adrenaline-fueled mix of both—he didn't know, he couldn't tell, and he didn't care to.

He pushed himself to his feet, stumbling slightly in his haste. "Don't touch me." He lifted a hand, palm out, fingers spread, in silent challenge. "Don't you _ever_ touch me like that again."

"If I am to keep your secret," Agravaine said, a strange sort of smile playing about his lips, "I do deserve some form of recompense." His gaze flicked down, roving slowly— _lecherously_ —over Merlin.

" _No,"_ the warlock repeated, hand still out and a sudden, furious heat flooding him—his insides writhed, like a nest of maddened snakes, at the mere thought. "I will _not_ be used like that. You will keep _away_ from me."

"Forgive me, Merlin," Agravaine raised his eyebrows, but his odd little smile never once wavered. "I had no idea you were so eager for Arthur to know of your…" His smile grew a centimeter. "… _abilities_."

Merlin froze.

"I had hoped," Agravaine continued—and no, it wasn't a smile, and it never had been—it was a smirk, sharp and vicious and so, so satisfied, "we could come to an agreement upon this, Merlin. I'm only sorry I was so mistaken."

— _you must understand the difficulty I will have—in keeping such a secret—_

Everything made sense now, and Merlin forgot how to breathe.

"No matter," Agravaine's voice was quiet, yet it seemed to carry to every corner of the vast room. "It will be easy, won't it, to rectify this misunderstanding?"

"—No—" Merlin's upraised hand began to shake. "—no—you can't do this—you _can't_ —"

"I'm afraid," the words held an air of utmost solemnity, but the smirk still clinging doggedly to the corner of his lip belied it, "I can see no other option, Merlin."

"Arthur won't—" his knees had taken up the trembling now, too, so badly he could scarcely stand. "He won't listen! He won't listen to you! He _trusts_ me!" The statement gave him strength, and he found he could stand a little straighter, having said it.

"Oh? And who do you think he trusts _more_?" Agravaine stepped closer. "A lord of the court? His last blood relative? The one who's been there for him since that heartless tyrant he called _father_ went _senile_?" His smirk slipped, twisting into an ugly, savage snarl. "Or his poor, bumbling, silly little muck-up _servant_ who can't even shine his boots right?"

 _You're wrong,_ Merlin wanted to say—he wanted to yell, wanted to shout, wanted to _scream_ , but the words wouldn't come, and Agravaine—

—Agravaine was _right._

Arthur trusted Merlin, he _did_ —expected him at council meetings, and asked his opinion afterward, entrusted him with keys and kingdom secrets servants shouldn't even know existed, dragged him along on quests and hunting trips and rescue missions, looked to him for advice, laid himself and his feelings bare—oh, yes, Arthur trusted Merlin, but—

—but he trusted Agravaine _more_.

Agravaine could go to Arthur—he could do it—walk right back into the feasting hall, ask him for a word—pull him away from the festivities, break the news, and Arthur—

Arthur would _believe_ him.

 _Because he trusted Agravaine more_.

And Merlin—

"Wait."

— _Merlin didn't have a choice._

Merlin stepped forward—and his legs wouldn't stop shaking and his hands wouldn't stop shaking and he didn't have a choice and Arthur trusted Agravaine more and he couldn't stop shaking and Arthur trusted Agravaine more and _he didn't have a choice—_

"If I do this," he said slowly, and every word burned, and his own voice came from a long way away, "you won't tell Arthur. Swear that to me. _Swear it_."

"My lips," Agravaine's awful smirk returned, wider than ever—he leaned so close, Merlin smelled the sweet wine still on his breath, "are _sealed_."

"Then—" He didn't have a choice he didn't have a choice Arthur trusted Agravaine more _he didn't have a choice_. "—I will do it."

He couldn't stop shaking and he didn't have a choice and Arthur trusted Agravaine more and he didn't have a choice and _lord of the court_ and _last blood relative_ and _poor bumbling silly little muck-up servant_ and _can't even shine his boots right_ and he didn't have a choice.

He kissed Agravaine.

Just a smooth, weightless brush of lips on lips, and he tried to leave it at that—hands fisted at his sides and head turned away—and he prayed it would be enough, but a heavy hand clamped down and cupped the back of his head—pressed him deeper, dragged him closer—Agravaine's mouth crashed furiously against his, in a sharp, scorching collision—he jerked backward on instinct, but behind him stood only cold stone, and something inside him twisted up so tight, it _hurt_ —and Agravaine didn't let up—didn't slow down—only pushed him harder—he retaliated—reflex, automatic, uncontrolled, unintentional—kissing back with a little too much teeth.

Agravaine's hand slipped out from under his head—so suddenly he held in a hiss when his skull struck the wall—strong fingers closed around his arm—forcing him fast against the wall—his pulse picked up speed at the new position—he forgot how to breathe all over again—and Agravaine's other hand dipped lower, grinding down between Merlin's legs—he ducked his head, lips grazing down Merlin's jaw—the curve of his neck, the hollow of his throat—teeth dragging, unexpectedly gently, along his collarbone—his fingers never stilled, squeezing and rubbing and pushing with an almost feverish intensity—a shade of force behind the touch now, as he rammed his hand in— _oh_ —

A thrill shot through Merlin, sudden and staticky and so strong, he actually shuddered, eyes slipping closed— _oh, God, that was_ —he couldn't help it—he moaned aloud, long and low—he slid a little farther down the wall—he _melted_ under Agravaine's touch—

 _Agravaine._

Merlin's skin _burned_ against the smooth, cool stone of the bedroom wall—fire flared to life in his stomach, every inch of him consumed by heat—and warm, wet lips, pressing against his ear, and a sultry whisper, just loud enough to hear— _oh—so you do like it a bit rough—don't you, Merlin_ —and the flames gave a great roar inside him—sparks shot up into his throat—and he ground his teeth together, and hissed at the man in front of him.

" _Get. Off. Me."_

"You must be careful," Agravaine pressed a quick kiss to Merlin's earlobe, "one might think you'd never experienced the…" He drew back, and paused a moment, lips curling into a smile, "… _pleasures_ of the body before."

The slightly sensual emphasis on the word made Merlin flush, and he turned his head away, cheek hot against the wall—and Agravaine must have noticed, because he could see, from the corner of his eye, a thick dark brow arching up.

"Haven't you?" Agravaine pulled his hand up to grasp Merlin's chin, tugging upward, forcing them to lock eyes. "Pretty little thing like you—I'm sure the stable boys can't keep their hands off you—to say nothing of the knights—"

" _Arthur's knights are honorable men!"_ Merlin snarled—he pushed off the wall, pushed out against Agravaine—how could the lord be so bold as to even _suggest_ —? Scorching rage seared his throat at the thought. "They would _never_ —not unless I—!"

"Are you _really_ so inexperienced?" Agravaine drew back to look at Merlin, a gleam in his dark eyes. He put a hand to Merlin's chest, driving him back into the wall. "Am I truly to be the first to teach you the… _satisfactions_ …" His hand slid back down, rubbing anew at Merlin's groin. "…of the flesh?"

Merlin spat at him—he probably would have cursed the man into oblivion otherwise, which would have made everything about a thousand times worse. "I don't want any _'satisfaction'_ at _your_ hands."

"You should know better than to make promises you won't be able to keep." Agravaine shoved his hand inward—suddenly, sharply—and the—the _pressure_ —

Merlin sucked in a breath—his insides buzzed, demanding more—he bit down on his bottom lip, teeth tearing so viciously into soft pink flesh he began to bleed, and clenched his teeth together, pressing the palm of his hand flat to the wall—the polished, even stone against his skin grounded him, for a moment, and stiffened his resolve. He would not find pleasure in this. _He would not find pleasure in this_.

The touch glided upward now, tugging light but insistent at the waistband of his trousers—he tensed— _no_ —the word tumbled reflexively from his lips, little more than a strangled gasp— _stop_ — _don't_ —but Agravaine didn't—he _didn't_ stop—not until he had his hand down the front of Merlin's pants, and even then, he didn't stop—he thrust his hand, hard, into Merlin's cock— _too hard_ —Merlin stifled a cry—it _hurt_ —he hadn't expected it to hurt _so much_ —and Agravaine kept going—he just kept going—his first two fingers shifted and slid—slid up _inside_ Merlin—he didn't know if it was pleasure or pain or some awful blend of the two, but he'd never felt anything like it, and he couldn't keep quiet anymore, and he didn't know what sound he made—a moan, a yell, a whimper, a wordless, desperate plea for it to just _stop—he didn't know_ , but he knew Agravaine's fingers were— _invading, defiling, polluting, profaning, spoiling, violating,_ _ruining_ —if this went on—if this went on, Merlin would be— _nothing_ —and that was _all_ he knew—his magic blazed in his veins—aching to burst free—but he couldn't—he pushed it down deep, and locked it away—he _couldn't_ —he didn't have a choice—Arthur—Agravaine would tell Arthur—and Arthur trusted Agravaine _more_ —

" _Shh."_ Agravaine bowed his head to put his mouth back on Merlin's, and licked away the blood beading on the warlock's bottom lip. "Hush now, Merlin, there's no need for all that noise."

Thick fingers twisted and curled inside Merlin, and he couldn't keep back a gasp—and _he didn't know_ if the fire within him was borne of fury or a different sort of _heat_ altogether—and _he hated it—_

"I've told you to _keep quiet_ , and I expect you to do so," Agravaine hissed, and his fingers stilled—and Merlin didn't know if that was better or worse or somewhere in between, but another sound slipped from between tightly clenched teeth—and _he hated it_.

"Do you think you can be quiet for me, Merlin?"

And something—

— _invaded, defiled, polluted, profaned, spoiled, violated, ruined—_

—something inside Merlin _broke_.

" _Not this_ ," he whispered, as stinging tears turned the whole world blurry. " _Please,_ not this."

— _nothing—_

"Would you prefer I bring this to Arthur's attention?"

" _No,"_ Merlin bit his lip again, to keep it from trembling. "No—can't you—can't you find another way—something else—anything else—not this— _not this_ … _please_ …" He blinked, to keep the tears from brimming over.

" _This_ ," Abruptly— _painfully_ —Agravaine pushed his fingers upward, "is _all_ that I want."

And Merlin—

— _lord of the court last blood relative poor bumbling silly little muck-up servant can't even shine his boots right invaded defiled polluted profaned spoiled violated ruined—_

—Merlin _didn't have a choice_.

Because Arthur trusted Agravaine _more_.

* * *

"Where the _hell_ were you?!" Arthur made sure to shut the door before he said the words, turning sharply on his heel to fix his servant with a glare—somewhere behind him, wood collided with stone in a deafening symphony, but he couldn't bring himself to care about the noise, not when Merlin just _stood_ there in front of him, looking as soused as could be, dark hair mussed and blue scarf horribly awry, eyes distant and dazed—for gods' sakes, he wasn't even _trying_ to defend himself! Even _Merlin_ couldn't be such an insubordinate idiot as to think nothing of sneaking off from the coronation, to _imbibe_ , no less! Really, Arthur should just leave him in the stocks the whole night through—it would serve him right—but word would get out, and Gwaine would likely murder him, or at least give it an impressive go.

The thought of the rebellious knight pulled Arthur firmly back to the matter at hand as he recalled—

"Even _Gwaine_ managed to stay sober!" He emphasized the man's name and strode across the room, halting in front of Merlin. "Doesn't that tell you _something_? Of all the nights for you to pull this!"

Merlin finally spoke— _finally_ —and that was absolutely _not_ relief rushing through Arthur—his servant's silence had _not_ been eerie or concerning, no, it had been _wonderful_ and _refreshing_ , and—

"Sire," Merlin stepped forward, and unfastened Arthur's cloak, "I wasn't—I didn't have any—"

—and he had the _nerve_ to _deny_ it?!

" _No?"_ Arthur demanded. "Then _where were you_?"

"I—" Merlin bit his lip—caught in the lie—and looking almost surprised by that, like he'd actually thought he could get Arthur to swallow anything less than the truth. "—I'm sorry, Sire, I—it won't happen again." He tugged the cloak from Arthur's shoulders, and flung it onto the bed—the unmade bed—a halfway decent servant would have at least tried to tidy things up before the feast—and a halfway decent servant wouldn't have _left the feast_ _to get drunk_ , either.

Arthur pressed his lips together. "See that it doesn't."

Merlin only nodded, and set about undoing the clasps in his ceremonial mail.

"Well, I _do_ hope you _enjoyed_ yourself," Arthur added bitingly, "because I expect you half an hour early tomorrow with an additional breakfast. I'll be dining with the Lord Agravaine first thing to discuss the situation in Tintagel," he explained, "which I mentioned _yesterday_ ," pointedly, at the servant's bewildered look—honestly, did the man _never_ listen to him? " _Three_ times."

Merlin didn't even have the grace for one of his sheepish smiles. "A-actually, Sire, I need to—"

"I don't want any of your excuses, Merlin," Arthur broke in, a bit sharply, and held up a hand to silence the sudden stream of protests. "And I'll have _none_ of your usual languishing tomorrow, either."

" _No,"_ Merlin said, a little louder this time, "no, that's not—" He'd completely left off loosing Arthur's armor, but his fingers never quit the metal links—all at once, he drew himself up and dragged in a breath, oddly as though steeling himself, and continued. "I need to tell you something."

"I'm well aware you are going to be hungover come morning, and I don't feel a jot sorry for you." As he spoke, Arthur gestured impatiently for Merlin to continue with his mail—it was far too late for all this nonsense, and the sooner he collapsed into his bed and forgot the entire night, the better—but the servant wouldn't look at him anymore.

" _No_ , I—I _don't_ —it's—it's Agravaine—he—" Merlin stopped, swallowed, and reached for his scarf, tangling his fingers up in the rough blue cloth. "—he—" He stopped again.

Arthur rolled his eyes—at _this_ rate, he wouldn't be getting to bed until sunrise. "Spit it out, Merlin." Impatience edged his tone—a bit more than the situation necessarily demanded, he knew, but he was too exhausted to regret it. He scrubbed a hand roughly over his tired eyes, and stifled a groan as the silence stretched on—why couldn't the idiot just _say_ whatever the hell he was getting himself so worked up for—?

"—he's worried about you."

Arthur dropped his hands, and lifted his head to look at Merlin. "…What?"

"Agravaine—Agravaine's worried about you." Merlin still wouldn't look at him—kept his head down as he resumed his work on the armor, quick fingers leaping from buckle to buckle with the haste of much practice. "Asked me to make sure you were all right."

"He _did_?" Doubt flooded Arthur at the words—of course he knew Agravaine _cared_ for him, in his own sort of strange, Agravaine-ish way, but his uncle had made it clear to all that he was not an affectionate or demonstrative sort of man—down to business and straight to the point, that was his way, no talk of feelings and such—which suited Arthur just fine, of course, but the thought of Agravaine expressing his concern so freely—to _Merlin_ , of all people—the two had never quite taken to each other in the way Arthur had hoped they might—above all, he just couldn't get his head around the idea that they'd had a properly civil conversation. About _his own wellbeing_ , if Merlin was to be believed.

Then the doubt washed away in a strong deluge of sudden warmth.

What on earth had he ever done to deserve the respect, the regard, the _loyalty_ Agravaine had shown him since he'd become regent? Even on the days when duty weighed too heavily upon him, and he thought he'd surely crumple and collapse beneath the burden, he could always count on his uncle to stand with arms out, ready and willing to bear it with him. Truly, he had done nothing to warrant the allegiance of such a great man.

"Thank you, Merlin," he said impulsively, his previous irritation receding rapidly in light of the servant's report, "for telling me this. I will be sure to set his mind at ease."

Merlin smiled—it looked slightly strained, maybe the wine was beginning to wear off—and pulled the coat of mail up over Arthur's head. He took the armor, and laid it carefully over the bare stand in the corner, before he spoke again.

"Glad to hear it, Sire."

* * *

 **Notes: WHOAKAY do you know how much SHIT this chapter gave me I literally had to beat this fucker into submission with a fucking STICK just to get it written. Also I realized like right after I finished that Agravaine sticks his fingers in dry, but I didn't care enough to change it. also I have written Arthur's POV a grand total of once, so dear God, please go easy on me.**


	3. Love is Like Being Fucked With a Knife

The books, sad songs, and cinemas,

They all lied, lied, lied,

Why didn't anyone tell me,

Love is like being fucked with a knife?

- _Flowers of Flesh and Blood,_ Nicole Dollanganger

* * *

Merlin didn't know when it hit him—but Merlin didn't know— _anything_ —anymore—every corridor and staircase and ceiling and floor and window and door looked the same and every step hurt and every breath hurt and every thought hurt and he didn't know where he was and he didn't know where he was going and he didn't know anything and maybe he wasn't really here—maybe he wasn't really real—maybe he never had been—maybe nothing in the entire world was real—he didn't know where he was, because he didn't know anything, but he thought he might have been somewhere between Arthur's chambers and his own but then he didn't know where he was again and he thought maybe he took a wrong turn or maybe nothing in the entire world was real and then he was standing in front of the door to Gaius' rooms—and he knew he needed to push it open and walk inside but he didn't know if he could lift his hands—he didn't know much of anything anymore but he knew enough to know that his arms were shaking and his legs were shaking and if he wasn't mistaken, then the rest of him was shaking, too, and he needed to go inside because Gaius would be waiting for him—and it hit him, then, that he could—

—he could go to Gaius.

He _could_ go to Gaius. Gaius would be waiting up for him, and Gaius would listen to him, and Gaius would believe him, and Gaius would understand him, and he didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew that was _real_.

Gaius carried all of his secrets.

And he didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew if he asked, Gaius would gladly carry one more.

Merlin opened the door—oh, so he _could_ lift his hands, though they trembled like the leaves on the trees on a cold night in the Darkling Woods—and went inside—and he had to stop, and lean against the door to shut it again, and thousands of miles away from him, it clicked. Everything was a thousand miles away from him. Or maybe _he_ was a thousand miles away from everything, or maybe he wasn't real, or maybe it was everything else that wasn't real, or maybe a thousand miles weren't real.

And he looked up and Gaius' lips were moving but everything was a thousand miles away from him, or he was a thousand miles away from everything, or he wasn't real or everything else wasn't real or a thousand miles weren't real or—

Fingers closed around his arm—

— _a hand on his arm warm and firm and just above his elbow—_

"N-no," he said, and it came out strangled—he jerked against the grip—fought it—hands on him and then there would be hands inside him and he'd have to use his magic only he couldn't use his magic because then Agravaine would tell Arthur and then _Arthur_ would know about his magic and that could never happen—never ever—not even to get Agravaine's mouth off his mouth or to keep Agravaine's tongue from sliding, wet and warm, over his own and a cold wall on his warm naked back and fingers in his mouth and fingers up inside him and fingers so far down his throat he thought he was going to throw up and slick silk sheets under his skin and everything would hurt and he'd have to use his magic only he couldn't use his magic because then Agravaine would tell Arthur and then Arthur would know about his magic and that could never happen, never ever, because Arthur didn't trust him _enough_ and—

His name—someone said his name—someone said his name, over and over and over—and it came from a thousand miles away—and a face, so familiar with all its lines and wrinkles and— _Gaius_ —

Merlin stopped.

There wouldn't be hands inside him there wouldn't be a mouth on his mouth or a tongue over his tongue or a wall on his back or fingers in his mouth or fingers anywhere else or sheets under his skin and nothing would hurt because Gaius wouldn't let it.

"Merlin?"

Merlin. That was—that was him. That was his name. That was his name, and somebody else knew it. He was real, after all.

"—I—"

Everything was real. Everything was real, and _he_ was real, and a thousand miles were real, and his hands, still shaking like the leaves in the Darkling Woods, were real, too, and the sour taste at the back of his mouth was real, and the fire crackling in the hearth on the other side of the room was real, and Gaius was real and everything was _so real—_ the candles burned too brightly and the fire burned too brightly and everything burned too brightly and a thousand miles wasn't nearly far enough after all—and all the colors in all the world were in this room, blazing red and blue and black and white and green and yellow and orange and purple and a kaleidoscope of everything and nothing and everything again—and everything was real and the sound of his own breathing scared him in how _real_ it was—

"Merlin?"

Gaius said his name again, and there was something strange in his voice now.

"—I—" He tried to speak, but it—it was so _loud_ , his own voice—and he didn't like it—but— "—I didn't mean—" He winced, and brought his hands up to his ears—his fingers jerked and shuddered against the sides of his head. "—sorry."

"Slow down, Merlin," Gaius said—and that didn't make any sense, because he was standing still. "Have a seat, and let me have a look at you."

"—I'm—" The words stuck in his throat, and he winced again, and pushed them harder—but when they finally came out, they weren't the words he wanted to say. "—I'm _fine_ , Gaius." He didn't want to say that—he didn't _mean_ to say that—

"I'll be the judge of that," Gaius said, in his firmest voice, and guided Merlin to his chair at the table—it hurt—sitting down _hurt_ —hurt like Agravaine's fingers were still somewhere inside him, pushing and shoving and twisting and invading and defiling and polluting and profaning and spoiling and violating and _ruining_ —

There was a plate of food in front of him, suddenly, and he didn't know when it had gotten there, and Gaius must have seen him looking at it, because suddenly, there was a fork in his hand, and Gaius was telling him to eat, and still speaking in his firmest voice.

Merlin curled his fingers around the fork, so cold and heavy in his hands—the firelight glinted strangely off the metal, a thousand tiny dots of striking radiance. _Real._

Warm fingers prodded at his head, carding slowly through his hair— _only Gaius,_ he told himself, and held the fork tighter because when he did, the sharp silver tines dug into his skin and his hands didn't shake anymore.

The back of his head hurt when Gaius touched it—like a bruise—he winced, and jerked away on reflex—the space between his legs throbbed with the motion, and he winced again.

"I suspected as much." Gaius pursed his lips. "You've hit your head."

"No," he said at once, because he _didn't_ —but—

— _the sharp crack of his head against the wall as Agravaine's hands moved farther down—_

"—o-oh," he said. "I did. Not—not hard."

 _Hard enough to hurt_ , he wanted to say, but didn't.

"Headache?" Gaius took Merlin's chin in his hands, rough and wrinkled fingers startlingly gentle, and pale, steady eyes searching Merlin's own. "Dizziness? Confusion?"

"N-no." Merlin shifted slightly in his seat, edgy under the scrutiny, and smothered a gasp as the pain flared again.

" _Liar,"_ Gaius said sharply, undeceived, but let go of his chin. "Where else?"

"Nowhere." He dropped his hand to his lap—the searing burn still scorched, under his fingers and beneath his clothes and between his legs and he wanted it to stop and he wanted it out of him and he wanted he didn't know _what_ he wanted—but not this—never this—never, _ever_ this—hands inside him and a mouth on his mouth and a tongue sliding wet and warm over his own and a cold wall against his warm naked back—

"What happened?" Gaius, ever skeptical, arched his infamous eyebrow. "Where were you?"

"—I—"

Hands inside him and a mouth on his mouth and a tongue sliding wet and warm over his own and a cold wall against his warm naked back and fingers in his mouth and fingers up inside him so far up inside him it hurt and invaded defiled polluted profaned spoiled violated ruined and fingers down his throat fingers so far down his throat he thought he was going to throw up and slick silk sheets under his skin and everything hurt and he couldn't stop it and he didn't have a choice and he just wanted it to stop and invaded defiled polluted profaned spoiled violated ruined and he could tell Gaius because Gaius would listen to him and Gaius would believe him and Gaius would understand him and Gaius would know he hadn't had a choice and Gaius would know what to do because Gaius always knew what to do and Merlin opened his mouth to tell him—

—Gaius would _believe_ him—

— _hands inside him and a mouth on his mouth and a tongue sliding wet and warm over his own_ —

—but—

— _invaded defiled polluted profaned spoiled violated ruined_ —and Agravaine's fingers twisting and turning up inside him and—

Merlin tasted the truth in his mouth. He imagined letting it fall from his tongue. How it would sound hanging in the air. How Gaius might look at him when he said the words— _Agravaine knows about my magic—Agravaine knows about my magic, Gaius, and he said he was going to tell Arthur unless I—_

— _unless I—_

Merlin burned. Beneath his clothes, he burned, and between his legs, he burned, and suddenly, he thought he might die with the absolute and indescribable _shame_ of it.

 _I fucked him._

And Gaius would—Gaius would look at him in that way he did, mouth pinching up in that thin little line as he pressed his lips together—and his voice, so sharp and brittle, the way it always sounded when Merlin let him down— _I see,_ he would say, and the unspoken condemnation in his tone just might break Merlin.

 _I had to,_ Merlin would add, desperate, _I had to, Gaius, he said he would tell Arthur if I didn't—I didn't have a choice—Gaius, I didn't have a choice—_

Gaius' mouth would go even thinner. _You should have been more careful._

 _I know._ Merlin would hang his head.

 _How many times, Merlin?_ Gaius would demand, fire in his tone. _How many times must I tell you to be more careful with your magic? Now you've gotten yourself into a proper mess, and you've no one to blame but yourself._

 _I know,_ Merlin would say, sure he was shrinking, smaller and smaller and smaller, in his seat.

 _You should not have done that, Merlin,_ Gaius would say, ice in his eyes, _you should not have let him discover your magic. And you should never have agreed to bed him like you're some street whore—_

Merlin winced at the word, and shook his head. No. He pressed his lips together. No, he was—he was _nothing_ like that. He hadn't—he hadn't _chosen_ to do it—he hadn't _wanted_ to—he had resisted, he had protested— _and you also moaned and melted beneath his touch,_ said a small and horribly honest voice in the back of his mind. _You didn't say a single word, but you might as well have begged for more. You were so hard for him._

No, no, no, that—that wasn't—no, that wasn't true, he hadn't wanted it, he hadn't wanted it, he _hadn't,_ he hadn't chosen it, he'd said no, he'd resisted, he'd protested, _he'd said no_ —

 _But had he said it loud enough?_

He could have—he could have stopped it—if he'd wanted to—if he'd _really_ wanted to—he could have ended it before it had even begun—before the hands all over him and the hands inside him and he could have stopped it he could have stopped it he could have stopped it from the moment Agravaine kissed him that first time, he could have stopped it—the rich, red wine he himself hadn't tasted on his lips, and the strong fingers cupping his cheek and the rough, hungry hands grinding into his groin and the—the feeling it had put in his stomach—like sparks, like fire, like—like _heat_ —he could have stopped it, he could have done a damn sight more than just stopped it, he'd had the power, hadn't he, building in his chest and burning in his veins and searing in the center of his palms and he could have used it, he could have, he really could have—he could have killed Agravaine, and it would have been so easy, and no one would have ever known it was him, no one would have ever even suspected—that assassin, in the Darkling Woods, he'd killed him, hadn't he? Snapped his neck without ever touching him at all, raw fury fueling him longer than any spell—that could have been Agravaine tonight. If he'd wanted it to be. Agravaine, broken and bloody, eyes wide and terrified, flat on his back on the ground as the last of the life bled from his body and he realized how wrong he had been, to seek his satisfaction in Emrys himself—

"—Merlin?"

 _Gaius._

No, no, he couldn't—he could not tell Gaius. He could never, ever tell Gaius.

"Assassin," Merlin heard his own voice from a thousand miles away. Everything was a thousand miles away from him. Or maybe he was a thousand miles away from everything.

"Another one?" Gaius looked at him.

And Merlin nodded and he swallowed the truth and he could swear the sharp, honest edges sliced his throat all the way down because _he could not tell Gaius_ , he could _never_ tell Gaius, he could never tell _anyone_. He'd resisted. He'd protested. _He'd said no._ But it didn't matter.

He hadn't said it loud enough.

* * *

"Merlin, you _idiot_!"

 _Breathe._ Breathe, that was it, that was all he had to do, breathe, just breathe, in and out and in again, breathe, he had to breathe, he couldn't breathe, he needed to breathe, he needed to breathe, he had to breathe, that was all he had to do, and he couldn't he couldn't _he couldn't fucking breathe_ when he had the _entire castle_ sitting on top of his chest—crumbling, his lungs were crumbling—his lungs were _crumbling_ and _collapsing_ and _he couldn't breathe_ and Agravaine was there right there right in front of him and _hands all over him hands all over him hands all over him_ he was shaking and he couldn't stop he was shaking like the leaves on the trees on a cold night in the Darkling Woods again and Arthur was yelling and yelling and yelling but everything was a thousand miles away from him and he didn't hear a single word.

"—is there anything you're _actually capable_ of doing—?!"

 _Breathe._ That was it. That was all he had to do. Breathe. Just breathe. In and out and in again. Breathe. _Don't think, just breathe._

"—are you even _listening_ to me—?!"

 _Breathe._ That was it. That was all he had to do.

"S-sorry, Sire." Move. He needed—he needed to move. He stepped forward, to put the breakfasts he'd brought down on the table, but his hands were empty and he didn't know where the dishes had gone and—and—

 _Oh._

Food. All over the floor. Sausages. Bread. Cheese. Berries. Butter. Wine. All over the floor. He was standing on a plate. He stepped back.

"Sorry, Sire," he repeated mechanically, and he picked the napkins up off the table and went down to his knees and started to clear it up.

Agravaine handed him a stray, shattered shard of a delicate porcelain plate. His fingers brushed Merlin's wrist. His hand lingered a little too long against Merlin's skin, and Merlin went still and silent and didn't dare pull away. Agravaine smiled, and let go, and _crumbling._ His lungs were crumbling.

* * *

"Tintagel."

"What?" Merlin hauled Arthur's armor off its stand—it gleamed in the sunlight like the fork last night had gleamed in the firelight—a thousand tiny dots of striking radiance—but this time he couldn't find any sharp edges to cut into his flesh, to hurt him, to bring him back to himself. His wrist burned where Agravaine had touched it.

"Tintagel," Arthur repeated, and impatience edged his tone. "Do you think Gaius will be of any use to the people of Tintagel?"

Oh. Oh, yes, Tintagel—the breakfast with—with Agravaine— _breathe, breathe, all you have to do is breathe, that's it_ —that was—that—Tintagel. They had discussed Tintagel. And the strange plague striking its people down. Yes. Merlin swallowed, and let the armor fall in a shining silver pile on Arthur's bed. "Of course. Gaius is very skilled. He's never failed yet."

He spent a moment sorting through the sparkling heap for the mail coat. When he dragged it out at last, Arthur obligingly raised his arms, and Merlin let it fall gently over the blond head. He smoothed out the links with the flat of his hand. The metal was cool and solid and _familiar_ under his palm. Arthur. It felt like Arthur. He could breathe.

* * *

That night, Gaius packed up his things in a bag of fraying brown cloth, by candlelight, patted Merlin on the shoulder with a firm and warm and ever-reassuring hand, and told him to look after himself.

When Merlin woke up the next morning, Gaius had already gone—Leon and Percival with him, Arthur's orders—the main road to Tintagel was no stranger to bandits—and there was a bowl of porridge on the table in Merlin's usual place. It had gone cold by the time he spotted it, but he smiled at the sight of it anyway—then he wondered if the bowl would still be there if Gaius knew the truth, knew what he'd done the night before last, and suddenly he couldn't think of a single thing to smile about.

* * *

It still hurt to walk. At least the awful burn between his legs had died down to a kind of dull throb—painful, yes, but manageable—and he weaved his way through the castle as quickly as he could, biting back a wince whenever the tender area gave a twinge. He rounded the corner and hastened down the next hall—empty as the last three—most of the servants weren't up and about yet—per Arthur's whims, he was usually one of the first to rise, and one of the last to retire—if he could drag the prat out of bed quick enough, he might have time to get to that armor he'd _sworn_ he'd polished yesterday, and Arthur would be none the wiser and—

 _Agravaine._

Merlin stopped. He didn't—he didn't want to—he didn't _mean_ to—and he hated that he did— _keep going,_ he told himself, as his heart hammered so hard in his chest, he wondered if it would burst clear through his shirt— _just keep going_ — _just breathe, and keep going_ —but his legs wouldn'tlisten to him and Agravaine was looking right at him—getting closer closer closer _closer_ —turn around, then, that was what he would do, turn around, double back, the longer route to Arthur's chambers would work just fine—

" _Merlin."_

The word was scarcely a whisper. Barely even a breath. Loud as a scream in the silence of the deserted corridor.

Merlin tightened his hold on Arthur's breakfast—he didn't need to go making a habit of dropping meals—he'd gotten yelled at enough this week—and pressed his lips together and lifted his chin and pretended he hadn't heard and—

—a hand. On his wrist. A hand on his wrist and it hurt and he jerked away on instinct because he didn't know what else to do and a thousand miles away from him the tray clattered to the floor because everything was a thousand miles away from him and _get off get off get off don't touch me stop touching me stop_ and Agravaine wouldn't he _wouldn't_ stop he wouldn't let him go, fingers digging, mercilessly deep, down into his skin, still bruised beneath the sleeve from when Agravaine had pinned his hands to the wall while he kissed him and _let go,_ he wouldn't let go, _please, just let go—_

" _Stop."_ The sharp, imperious hiss, hot breath just tickling Merlin's ear, sounded nothing short of deadly. Agravaine tightened his hold, and leaned ever closer. "I expect you in my chambers tonight. _Do not_ disappoint me." And then—

—and then he let go.

Just—just like that—he let go just like that, his hands there and gone in an instant, and then he swept past Merlin and off down the corridor without another word, without even a second glance, and Merlin hated the shaky breath of nervous, incredulous relief that left his mouth because it was done, it was over, it was finished, Agravaine was gone, Agravaine was—

—Agravaine was—

— _wait._

Merlin spun sharply on his heel. "I'm sorry, _what?"_ Louder than he meant it to be, but he didn't care—rage beat back fear in an instant, curling up and eddying around, like thick smoke, in the pit of his stomach. Did Agravaine—did Agravaine actually have the _nerve_ to _think_ —?

Agravaine paused—for a moment, Merlin thought he was going to just _ignore_ —but—no, he turned, one eyebrow cocked. "I beg your pardon?" He stepped a little closer.

Merlin reflexively stepped back. " _No._ You _can't_ do this. I did what you asked of me, but I won't do anything more. I _won't_."

The second eyebrow went the same way of the first. "I believe we discussed this during our last encounter, Merlin. I don't like to repeat myself."

"We—we made a deal, yes, but this was _not_ part of it!" The faintest shred of fear stirred again in Merlin's chest, but he crushed it under a swift and savage blow. It would not happen again. He would _not let it_ happen again.

"Forgive me, Merlin, but I'm fairly certain we did not argue specifics—"

" _I won't do it!"_ Merlin only just constrained himself to a furious whisper. "You can't make me!"

Agravaine's stupid, self-satisfied smirk slipped, for a moment— _good,_ Merlin thought, venomously—and he went striding back the way he'd come until he'd closed the distance between them and even then he didn't stop and he was nearly on top of Merlin now and Merlin stumbled back—he hated himself for it, but he couldn't stop he couldn't stop and then his back hit the wall and there was nowhere to go and Agravaine was so close and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't move and it wouldn't matter even if he could because he had nowhere to go he was trapped he was trapped he was trapped _he had nowhere to go_ —

Agravaine slammed his hand against the wall. Mere inches from Merlin's head. And Merlin flinched, and he couldn't help it, and he hated hated _hated_ it.

"I've _told_ you," his eyes burned, the words a growl in the back of his throat, "I _don't like_ to repeat myself. I will only remind you once more – if I am to keep your secret from your _precious_ Arthur, you will repay me in the way I have chosen, and you will do it _gladly_."

 _No._ Merlin couldn't—he couldn't let this happen—not again—he had to end things— _now—_

" _Do you understand?"_ Agravaine never raised his voice above that low, smooth whisper, but the corridor echoed with the sound, every word reverberating, resounding off the walls until it was all Merlin could hear, a deafening roar from everywhere and nowhere. Agravaine dashed his hand against the wall again. _"Do you understand?!"_

 _No,_ Merlin needed to say, _no_ , _never—never again, ever—it's over—you can't make me_ —he _needed_ to say it, he needed to stop this, he needed to put an end to things—he couldn't let it happen again, he _could not_ let it happen again—and it would be _so easy_ —let out the energy, thrumming and throbbing in his veins—let it out, let it go, let it pick Agravaine up and fling him back, all the way to the far wall—if he did it right, the force of the blow would break the vile pig's _neck_ —it wouldn't take long for a passing servant to find his body—

Merlin's stomach rolled, and he shut his eyes. The vision burned, bright like fire, in the back of his mind. He was sure he was going to be sick. How could—how could he have even let himself _think_ like that? How could he have even let himself imagine—even if only for a moment—? No, no, he could not—he _could not_ kill Agravaine. Such a senseless, cruel slaughter would serve none save himself. And Arthur would be _devastated—_

Arthur. Oh, gods. _Arthur._ Arthur would be—he would—to lose Agravaine now—so soon after his father—the blow could very well bring him to his knees. How could Merlin have even _considered_ doing something so horrible to him?

No. He couldn't hurt Agravaine. Even if he wanted to. And he couldn't—he _couldn't_ let him tell Arthur. Not now. Not ever.

Merlin swallowed. It all—it all came down to Arthur, didn't it? He couldn't hurt Agravaine, not without hurting Arthur, and he couldn't say no to Agravaine unless he wanted Arthur to find out the truth, and if Arthur found out the truth, _that_ would hurt him, too—

It all came down to Arthur.

Merlin opened his eyes. He forced himself to look at Agravaine. "Your chambers," he said, and he didn't know who he hated more, in that moment—the person in front of him or the person inside of him. "I'll be there."

 _For Arthur._

* * *

 **Notes: Hoping to get the next chapter up a little sooner than this one - I had some SERIOUS writer's block for probably a solid week right in the middle of this piece, and when I went back to it, I ended up rewriting over half of it, so naturally it took a little longer than usual. Still! Hopefully I'll be back a hell of a lot sooner with the next one, but I obviously can't guarantee. Comments help me grow!**


	4. Keep My Pretty Mouth Shut

"I'm headed straight for the castle,

They've got the kingdom locked up,

And there's an old man sitting on the throne that's saying

I should probably keep my pretty mouth shut."

\- _Castle,_ Halsey

* * *

 _For Arthur._

 _Gods,_ but it all came down to Arthur, didn't it? It _really did_ come down to Arthur, just Arthur, only Arthur, _always_ Arthur—once, this thought would have brought his blood to a boil, would have seared its sharp and scorching way through him, a trail of fury and resentment and ill-usage and _of course it comes down to Arthur because when does it_ not _come down to Arthur_ left in its wake—but—but _he saw_ —the shadows, Merlin saw the shadows—like great big bruises, startlingly stark under Arthur's sleepless, slightly puffy eyes—and he saw the lines, etched so deep in Arthur's pale, tired face, the exhausted slump to Arthur's shoulders, once so proud, the faded blue of Arthur's eyes, once so bright—the fractures, the fault lines, the cracks carving themselves into the skin as he staggered and struggled and crumbled under a burden far too heavy for him, too heavy for any man, to hope to bear alone—Merlin looked, and Merlin saw, and he could not have resented his king if he had tried.

He knew, then, that he was doing the right thing. He followed Arthur up the stairs and down the corridors and around the corners and into that morning's council meeting, and out into the training grounds—which seemed, somehow, quieter and emptier without Leon and Percival—and he didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew he was doing the right thing. Arthur carried the whole of the kingdom on his shoulders, and Merlin didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew he could not ask Arthur to carry anything more.

Merlin didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew Arthur did not deserve to hurt anymore.

And if that meant _he_ had to hurt—if he had to hurt _for Arthur_ —if he had to hurt so Arthur _didn't_ —

—well, it was for Arthur, so he'd shut his mouth and smile, and he wouldn't say a word. _For Arthur. For Arthur. For Arthur._

It was for Arthur, it was for Arthur, it was all for Arthur, all of it, every last little bit of it, and Merlin could see, if he closed his eyes, shoulders thrown back, as proud and tall as they had been—he could see a face without lines and flesh without fractures and eyes that had never lost their shine, eyes that were bright and blue and _alive_ again, and he found he could carry himself through the corridors and down to Agravaine's door.

Agravaine wasn't there.

On the other side of the room, the window was still open, thick red curtains thrown wide. The candles in their holders had not yet been lit, and the hearth held only cool embers. The desk, in the center of the room, stood with its surface nearly buried entirely under scrolls and scrolls of yellow-white parchment—reports and records and letters and maps—Merlin didn't care enough to linger on them—and the cloak—Agravaine's purple traveling cloak—was gone. He'd taken it off the—off the chair—

—the chair where Agravaine first kissed him with lips on his lips and hands on his chin and a tongue in his mouth and wine in the back of his throat even though he hadn't let a drop pass his own lips all night and fingers, so rough and fevered and hungry, sliding down and down and down and down and touching him, cupping him, stroking him, squeezing him—

— _no, no, no, stop, stop, stop, don't think about it, don't think about it, don't fucking think about it—_

—thick red velvet crumpling under his nails—

— _stop it stop it stop it that's not going to help just stop—_

—hands all over him hands inside him and _please not this not this not this anything but this_ and _this is all that I want_ and lips warm and slightly wet against his skin his jaw his throat his collarbones—

— _stop it stop it stop it—_

—tears stinging his cheeks and dripping down his chin and _please I'll do anything else please please anything else_ and his own voice so unlike himself, higher and higher and higher as true panic set in, as Agravaine's fingers rubbed smoothly up against his—

" _Just fucking stop it!"_ The words seemed to almost _rip_ their way out of Merlin's mouth, to tear themselves from his tongue, to claw up his throat and out into the open air—the sound echoed in the empty chamber, unplanned and unexpected and impossibly loud, strangely magnified, it seemed, by the silence of the room—and Merlin couldn't couldn't couldn't _stand_ it and he started to walk—he didn't know why—there was nowhere to go—but he walked, he walked, he walked away from the door and past the bed and over to the window and outside, the black sky blazed bright with a billion stars and the coldest wind he'd ever felt tore through the gap and into the room and the curtains billowed outward around him in the blasts and _thick red velvet crumpling under his nails_ and he couldn't he couldn't _he couldn't—_

He turned away from the window.

The chair where Agravaine had first kissed him and the wall where he'd pinned him and the floor where he'd knelt and there wasn't a _single goddamn place_ in this room he could let his memories touch. He walked away from the window. To the desk. He didn't know why but he snatched up the first piece of paper he saw, lying there right on top and he didn't care what it said and he couldn't read it by the dim starlight but he squinted at the words on the page anyway because there wasn't a single goddamn place in this room he could let his memories touch and if he tried, he knew he'd leave and then Agravaine—then Arthur—then—

— _stop it—_

The paper crinkled loudly. He looked down. His fingers had clenched up into a fist. He uncurled them, and smoothed the paper. He still couldn't read it.

A jerk of the hand, a burn behind his eyes, and a shimmering ball of blinding, blue-white light sat in his open palm. After the darkness of the room, it hurt him to look at it.

He looked back at the paper, momentarily startled to see Leon's narrow, painfully-neat writing stared back at him—what did Agravaine and Leon have to do with each other?—but a quick skim-through told him it was only the first knight's usual post-patrol report—he forgot, sometimes, that Arthur shared these reports with Agravaine—forgot, sometimes, how Arthur shared _everything_ with Agravaine—

He felt the sphere he'd conjured lift itself slowly from his palm—it came to a stop just above his head, bobbing slowly up and down, illuminating the entire chamber with its milky glow.

Merlin flung the report away—it couldn't hold his attention. The paper fluttered for a moment, end over end, in the air before it landed, face-down, on top of the left-hand stack. There was another paper now where it had been, and he tugged it up, a little closer to the light. Lines—thousands and thousands of thin, crisscrossed, intersecting lines—a map—a map of—of—

What did Agravaine want with the maps to Camelot's siege tunnels?

 _Copies,_ Merlin answered himself, almost at once, _Arthur must want copies_ —wait a moment, though, _that_ didn't make sense—that was the sort of task Arthur would have turned over to Geoffrey, not Agravaine—and, anyway, gods knew he would have made Merlin go down to the vaults and get them—or at least dragged Merlin along while _he_ went and got them. All right, then—then maybe—maybe Arthur thought they might need to use the siege tunnels soon—maybe he had some sort of—some sort of information on Morgana and had started defense preparations in case of attack— _no, that can't be right, he'd have told me about that—_

A streak, thin and black and almost glistening against the narrow, faded lines— _ink—fresh ink—_ Merlin bent a bit closer to the map, smoothing it flat with the palm of his hand—the sphere he'd summoned seemed to sense what he wanted, and dropped down a few inches—light flooded the worn paper—a string of dots, stark against the white page, and a word, a word in a hand he didn't recognize, a word he couldn't read—he leaned in just a bit more—

A quiet click and a longcreak and a slight scrape and— _the door,_ Merlin realized, too late— _the door had opened_ —and he turned— _too late_ —away from the desk—and then there was Agravaine Agravaine Agravaine only Agravaine, stopped short in the entryway and wrapped in his purple traveling cloak and staring staring _staring_ at Merlin and shaking shaking Merlin was shaking and he couldn't stop—leaves, like leaves in the Darkling Woods and why was everything so loud—his own breath, sharp and shuddering, and the steady drip of water on stone, from the hem of Agravaine's cloak—and the rustle of the paper in his hands— _rustle—paper—map_ —and Merlin's brain ground back into action and he wanted—he didn't know why, but he wanted—he wanted to toss it back onto the desk—stuff it out of sight—pretend he had not seen—pretend he had not looked—too late, too late, it was too late—and Agravaine shook off his shock and strode forward—nearer nearer nearer he was getting nearer and Merlin couldn't—he couldn't help himself—he stepped back—

"Did you—?" And Agravaine—incredibly—looked, not to the map in Merlin's trembling hands—but to the light, still floating less than a foot above their heads. "Did you do that?" He pointed to the light.

Merlin nodded. He couldn't seem to speak. He couldn't think why the light mattered so much, except— _oh—of course_ —he waited, then, for Agravaine to say the words he knew he would— _stop it—put it out—banish it—make it go away—_

Agravaine _laughed._ He looked at the light, and he laughed—and that didn't make any sense, that didn't make any sense at all, because didn't he—didn't he want it gone—wasn't he _afraid_ —? But in the silver-white shimmer, his face betrayed no fear—he moved, without hesitation or reluctance, around the light—he stopped only once, to swing his cloak off at the shoulder—hung it over the back of the red-velvet chair by the desk again—water still trickled, but more slowly now, from its edge—wait—wait a moment— _water_ —but—but it wasn't raining—

"Where—?" The sound of his own voice startled him—he hadn't really meant to speak aloud. "Where have you been?"

"No matter." Agravaine waved his hand dismissively, and slowly rounded the desk. The gleam had returned to his dark eyes. "We have more important things to consider, you and I." He put a finger under Merlin's chin—he leaned ever so slightly down—his gaze never left Merlin's lips—his hungry, searching mouth opened a fraction—but—

"No—" Merlin pulled back. "No, _where_ have you been?"

There was something almost like amusement in Agravaine's eyes when he regarded Merlin now. "I hope you were not waiting long?" He raised a brow. "I confess, I thought Arthur would keep you late as usual. I do apologize for the delay." He smiled—a small and altogether unreadable smile—and, before Merlin could protest, had swept him up in a kiss—but—but something was _wrong_ —his hands slipped down but—he wasn't—he wasn't trying to—didn't he want to—to _touch_ —?

The soft crinkle of creased paper sounded loud as a scream in the silence—Merlin's brain caught up with his senses, and he broke the kiss—jerked back—bumped the desk in his haste. "Does Arthur know you've got this?"

Agravaine laughed. "It was on his orders that I retrieved these maps and plotted the route, Merlin, or don't you remember? Yes, I would say he is aware I have them."

 _Plotted the route? On Arthur's orders?_ When did that—? Merlin narrowed his eyes. "I _don't_ remember, though. Refresh my memory?"

"That might be difficult seeing as how you were not present at the time."

"Not present?" Merlin repeated, and raised his eyebrows. " _That's_ convenient."

"It's certainly not _my_ fault you weren't in your usual place in Arthur's hip pocket." The small half-smile, which had clung so doggedly to the corner of Agravaine's lip all this time, slipped now into an irritated frown. _Interesting._ "I believe he mentioned he had sent you off to—muck the stables or—well— _something_ like that, anyway, the whereabouts of a servant were _hardly_ my concern at the—"

 _Damn it._ Point for Agravaine."Fine, then, so I wasn't there," Merlin conceded, and his own fury fell back a bit in the burst of vicious pleasure at the look of outrage on Agravaine's face—didn't like being interrupted, did he? "Do _you_ want to enlighten me, then? What did Arthur want with the maps?"

"Thisis a matter solely between myself and my nephew." Agravaine stepped back a pace, and his gleaming dark eyes never left Merlin's face. "And I will thank you to leave it that way."

Merlin ignored him. "And he asked you to get them? The maps?" He frowned. This didn't add up. "Why didn't he just get them himself? Did he say anything about that?"

"The king of Camelot," Agravaine snapped, nostrils flaring, and not a shred of warmth left in his face, "has _far_ more important matters to attend to than the retrieval of a mere _map_."

"I'm not sure Arthur would agree," Merlin said, and the truth of it burned, brighter than fire, inside him—no, Arthur would _not_ agree. He would think nothing at all of fetching the map for himself, no matter what Agravaine said. He would _want_ to do it, even. He would see it, Merlin knew, as a kind of privilege—a quiet and invisible sort of honor—to do what he could to see to the safety and the protection of the people. That was who Arthur was, and that was what Arthur did and why, then, had Agravaine felt the need to insist _he_ be the one to retrieve them—?

 _Agravaine had taken the map._

But—but _why_ —?

"Really, Merlin," Agravaine huffed, "you are being ridiculous! I do not pretend to know why Arthur neglected this to mention this to you, but rest assured—!"

No, but this didn't add up, _this just did not add up_ —Agravaine had no need of the map—why would he need—and if, for some reason, he did, why wouldn't he have just _asked_ Arthur—gods knew Arthur would say yes—gods knew Arthur would rip the stars from the sky with his own two hands if he thought it might please Agravaine—and Agravaine knew that, Agravaine must have known that, so why—and why would he _need_ —? It all came back to that, really, that one unanswerable, unfathomable question—why would Agravaine need the map in the first place? Agravaine, leading such a comfortable and influential life inside the castle—

 _Inside the castle. Inside the castle._

The whole world had shifted so rapidly in the past ten minutes, rearranged itself in a thousand and one different, confusing ways, and Merlin didn't think he could say, with any kind of certainty at least, which way was up anymore. But—but now— _inside the castle inside the castle inside the castle_ —the universe righted itself, and everything made sense again, the truth staring back at him in such stunning and simple clarity he could not believe he had ever failed to see it.

Yes, Agravaine, who lived inside the castle, had no need of that map, but there was somebody—somebody outside the castle, who would very much like to get in again—somebody who would want that map more than words could say—

And the final, missing piece to the strange and mysterious puzzle Merlin never meant to solve clicked all at once into place.

" _Morgana."_ The sound of his own voice startled him. He had not meant to say it aloud.

" _What?"_ Agravaine demanded, and his voice was like the serrated edge of Arthur's favorite hunting knife.

"You—you took—" Merlin lifted the map a little, "—you took this—" he raised his eyes to Agravaine's, cold as ice and glistening darkly in the light of his sphere, "—you took this for Morgana." The words had only just fallen from his mouth when revelation struck again. "That's—that's where you were tonight, isn't it? That's where you've been." And he _knew_ —he knew he was right—the brief flash of fury in the depths of Agravaine's black eyes—the tightness around his thin, unsmiling mouth—

"I understand," Agravaine said, and his voice washed over Merlin like cold water on a warm spine, like ice on fevered flesh, "I understand he has allowed you quite a bit offreedom in your speech to him, so much freedom, it seems, that you have forgotten your place. I am willing, then," he added, louder now, as Merlin furiously opened his mouth, "to overlook this accusation, severe as it was, but let me assure you: I will not be so lenient in future. Do I make myself clear?"

And— _rage_ —more powerful, more terrible, than anything Merlin had ever felt, unstoppable and uncontrollable in how quickly it swelled up inside of him, an enormous balloon endlessly spreading and stretching and expanding—and it flooded his lungs like water, and yet it seared up his throat like fire—rushing through him and pulling pulling pulling at him, ripping at him, wrenching him in every direction at once and his blood began to roar in his ears like a great and untamed beast and Agravaine, unflinching and unwavering and underhanded Agravaine and a betrayal that didn't belong to Merlin pounded inside him, in time with his heart—screams built up behind his lips— _how could you how could you how could you how could you fucking do this to Arthur—_

 _Arthur._ He had to get Arthur, see Arthur, talk to Arthur, tell Arthur— _tell Arthur_ —the jumbled and rapid and frenzied thoughts, moving so quickly he could scarcely keep track of them, scraped to a painful but immediate stop, the sharp edges snagging on the inside of a skull that felt suddenly too small to hold everything it ought—Arthur, he would have to tell Arthur, there was no other choice, no other way—and if there was, he would take it in a heartbeat but there wasn't, _there wasn't_ —he would have to tell Arthur. To look Arthur in the eye, and tell him—tell him how the last branch on the rotting tree of his sorry, fractured family had fallen, far too fast for anyone to catch, for anyone to even see—and Arthur would need to see for himself before he'd really believe it—he'd learned long ago to take no one at their word, not even Merlin—and then he'd see, he'd see, and it would shatter him, crumble him, crush him—Merlin would try, but he knew the weight of the truth was a burden he could not carry for Arthur, as he had so many others—

Merlin shut his eyes and swallowed, and he swore he could taste ashes. He could feel Agravaine's gaze on him like a physical thing. He had to get to Arthur as quickly as possible and he had to get to Arthur as _quietly_ as possible. He had gotten too far ahead of himself, shown his hand before he held all the cards, tried to check the king with nothing but a pawn. And he could do better than that— _had_ done better than that, when Morgana was still at court. It was Morgana over again, and he could do better. He opened his eyes. "I—I may have been—" _Quickly. Quietly._ "—hasty in my—my accusations against you. I—" The last word caught in the back of his throat—he spat it from his mouth like poison, "—I'm sorry."

A flicker of relief lit up Agravaine's lined features—he believed it— _good—_ next second, it had vanished as though it had never been, and he had drawn himself up to his full height. "You are forgiven," he said imperiously. "Now let us attend to other matters. Surely you can recall why we are here…"

* * *

A thousand times Merlin had pounded this path since he'd come to Camelot—through corridor after winding, labyrinthine corridor, once so baffling to his provincial, country-boy mind and now familiar as an old friend, from the hairline cracks in the sand-colored stone walls to the airy, wide-open ceilings a hundred leagues above his head—a thousand times he'd pounded this path, but not like this, not like this, _never_ like this—his hands shaking and his breath coming far too fast, rough and uneven and painfully loud in his ears and the thump of his boots on the ground and the desperate, deafening batter of his heart against his ribs hammering and hammering and hammering so hard he didn't know how his body could hold onto it _—_

—and the door, right there, the door, in front of him, and on the other side Arthur slept, untroubled and completely at peace, and still believed the best of the man who had betrayed him, and Merlin's steps faltered—his hand, halfway to the knob, dropped slowly back to his side—if there was anything else, any other choice, any other way, any other path in the world he could walk, he would, he would walk it, he would take it, he would do it, anything, he would do _anything_ to protect Arthur from this pain, but he couldn't he couldn't he _couldn't_ , Arthur had to know, _Arthur had to know_ —it had been a close call tonight, in Agravaine's chambers, too close—if he'd managed to get the map to Morgana—Merlin's resolve redoubled, and he pushed open the door.

And the sight of Arthur, sprawled on his stomach, his hair in his face and his head tilted to one side and his mouth slightly open, his thick red blankets wrapped loosely and lazily around his waist, made Merlin stop in the entryway, his fingers still clenched around the cool knob—what he wouldn't give to go back—just _go back_ , just turn away, let Arthur sleep because gods knew he wasn't doing nearly enough of that these days—gods knew he didn't deserve the hurt Merlin would have to ask him to carry—gods knew he looked, in his sleep, too _young_ to carry that hurt—the lines in his face, so marked in the morning light, had smoothed out to nearly nothing as he slumbered and gods knew if there was anything else, any other choice, any other way—but there wasn't, therewasn't, _there_ _wasn't_ , and Merlin stretched out his hand and shook Arthur's shoulder until his king, always slow to wake, stirred in his sheets, and cracked his tired blue eyes open by half a millimeter.

"'Erlin?" He lifted himself up a little, and threw a drowsy glance around the dark chamber. "What—what _time_ is it?"

Merlin pretended he hadn't heard the question. Pretended everything inside of him wasn't twisting up so tight, he knew it would never come loose. How quickly Arthur would forget to care about things like the time. "I—I have something to tell you." His voice sounded far too steady in his own ears.

Honey-blond brows lifted by a fraction. "Can't it wait—?"

" _No."_

Half a second of silence and stillness and weary blue eyes, ringed by shadows and sorrow and echoes of something lighter and younger and long since faded, and then the owner of those eyes sighed, and dragged a hand down the side of his face, and he looked so old and exhausted, Merlin thought he'd sooner cut out his own tongue than tell the truth.

Arthur lifted his head, and met Merlin's eyes. "Tell me."

* * *

"The idea is _preposterous_!" Arthur swatted impatiently at Merlin's hands when he reached to help, but at least he'd actually pulled himself up out of the bed and set about struggling into his shirt and shoving his feet into his boots—for a moment there, he'd looked a second away from rolling over and going right back to sleep. _"Why,"_ he finally pulled his head through the correct hole in his tunic, and emerged from the mass of white cloth looking vaguely disheveled, "why would Agravaine _ever_ betray Camelot?" He didn't seem to expect an answer or, at least, he didn't wait for one. "I refuse to believe—! It doesn't make any _sense_ —!"

Merlin silently straightened out Arthur's wrinkled shirt—this time, Arthur didn't bother to try and stop him. When he'd finished, Arthur snatched his keys off the bedside table, turned on his heel and ripped open the door. "Send the Lord Agravaine down to the vaults," he barked at the guard standing just outside his room and, without waiting for the man's answering nod or obedient retreat, he marched out into the deserted corridors without a word, back straight and fists clenched, always half a pace ahead of Merlin.

The silence followed them the whole way down to the vaults, so heavy on them, Merlin didn't know that he'd ever speak again. The darkness grew steadily thicker around them, but only when the air turned stale and cold, did he know they had reached their destination.

Arthur stopped before the familiar, towering black cabinet, ripped the right key away from the rest, and jammed it roughly in the lock—an instant later, and the bolt had clicked—Arthur flicked the cabinet door open, and reached for the mass of papers within.

A moment of blind rummaging turned into several—Arthur's brows drew together—he ducked his head a little, to peer into the cabinet's depths for himself—and Merlin wanted to look away, he didn't want to watch as the familiar string of hurt and disbelief and anger played out across Arthur's face but nothing inside of him would listen to him anymore, and Agravaine's footsteps sounded on the stairs above them and Arthur finally stepped back and withdrew his hand from the cabinet and—and—

—and he was holding the map.

No. _No_. How could he have— _how could he—?_

Arthur unrolled the map—his gaze flicked briefly over the worn paper, but his expression didn't change, and a minute later, he'd thrust the map wordlessly into Merlin's shaking hands and even in the darkness of the vaults Merlin could see there was no trace of the fresh ink from scarcely an hour ago and he could not keep back the sound that left his lips—it wasn't possible, it just _wasn't possible_ —

"No," he said, stupidly, because it was the only thing in the world he could think to say. "No—Arthur, it's—it's not—"

And then Agravaine was there, at Arthur's side, and his dark eyes flickered, for an instant, down to the map in Merlin's hands. The corner of his mouth curled up in something too small to be a smile and in that moment, Merlin knew he had not imagined anything that had happened this night—his own certainty burning, bright like fire, inside him gave him the strength to hold the gaze.

Agravaine looked away first, turning to Arthur. "I came as soon as I could, my Lord." He put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Is there a problem?" His voice was honey, too thick and too sweet—oh, _yes_ , he played his part well, and Merlin felt even more the fool, the map still clutched in his shaking hands—he had underestimated this man in front of him.

"No, Uncle, not at all." Without a word or even a glance, Arthur snatched the map back from Merlin, and threw it back into the cabinet. He slammed the cabinet shut. "I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you." His eyes snapped to Merlin, fury written clearly in every line of his face.

A shadow of a smile ghosted briefly across Agravaine's thin lips and this time, when his black eyes darted to Merlin, he didn't waver even as he bowed himself out of the vaults.

Oh, yes, he did play his part well.

So Merlin—

Well, Merlin would just have to play his part _better_.

"Arthur," he tossed a glance at the stairs, to be sure Agravaine had well and truly disappeared, "I _know_ what I saw. The map was _there_ , in his chambers. He took it from the vaults and he intended to bring it to Morgana, I _know_ he did. He's in league with Morgana. You _have_ to listen to me—"

"Merlin," Arthur held up a hand for silence, "I am going to do you a favor that you quite frankly _don't_ deserve, and pretend this never happened." He turned away from the cabinet, away from Merlin, the keys dangling from his fingers, and filling the vault with their soft jingling. "I expect you on time tomorrow, no excuses, I've a council meeting at sunrise." He started up the stairs.

It took a minute for Merlin to realize he had been dismissed—rudely, too, like some sort of housekeeper—oh, wait, that was sort of what he—never mind. He firmed his mouth, and strode after Arthur. "The map was in his chambers, I'm telling the truth! I _saw_ it!"

"And what exactly," Arthur tossed a glance at Merlin over his shoulder, furrows appearing in his forehead, "were you doing in his chambers?"

"I—he—" The words seemed to stick in his throat—he hadn't prepared himself for a question like this—and he could feel warm and greedy lips kissing their way down his collarbones and hungry hands rubbing at his cock and his throat burned with the taste of bile at the back of it. "He—he wanted a word, i-it's not important, he's planning something with Morgana, you must listen to me—"

Arthur shoved the door open, and stepped out into the corridor. "That's _enough_ , Merlin. I'm not arguing with you about this."

"But," Merlin followed after him, halting momentarily as the moonlight, dim as it was, stung his eyes after the all-encompassing darkness of the vaults, "but Arthur, if you would just—"

"Go to sleep, Merlin."

"— _listen—"_

Arthur wheeled abruptly around to face him, and his eyes were like ice. "One more word, and I swear to God, I will send you into exile." He turned around, and he kept walking. The keys jingled in his hands again.

— _an enormous balloon endlessly spreading and stretching and expanding and pulling pulling pulling at him, ripping at him, wrenching him in every direction at once, unstoppable and uncontrollable—_

" _LISTEN TO ME!"_

Stinging pain and something hot all over his hands and Arthur's eyes staring staring staring and words clawing their way out of his throat and throwing themselves off his tongue, out into the air, too fast for him to catch—

" _For once in your goddamn life, fucking listen to me, Arthur Pendragon!_ I _don't know_ how the stupid son of a _bitch_ got the map back into the vaults, but I—!"

"Watch your tongue," Arthur snapped, a red tinge appearing in his cheeks. "My uncle is a good and honorable man."

Merlin laughed, so wild and bitter he couldn't believe the sound belonged to him. _"Your uncle is a lying piece of filth!"_ The words erupted from his lips like lava from a volcano, exploding like a gas-fed flame.

"You go too far!"

"And you will not see those around you for what they _really are_!"

"I know him far better than you! I've known him since I was a _child_ —"

" _You've known_ Morgana _since you were a child!"_

And Arthur—like Merlin had just struck him across the face like Merlin had just driven a sword through his chest—stumbling back and his mouth opening and closing and his hands had started to shake so that jingling that awful awful awful jingling filled the whole corridor and all the anger drained from Merlin in an instant and what he wouldn't give to grab the words from the air and stuff them back in his mouth and swallow them down before they could reach Arthur's ears but it was too late, they had, _they had,_ and why had he let himself say—how could he have even let himself _think_ —?

"I—" Merlin stood frozen, staring into Arthur's devastated eyes. "I am so sorry—"

"Leave me." Arthur's hollow, toneless voice never rose above a whisper. Merlin would have preferred it if he had shouted. If he had struck back.

Merlin swallowed. It was so loud in the silence of the corridor. He knew Arthur could hear it. He stepped forward. "Arthur—"

" _Leave me."_ Hushed as they were, the words carried a touch of real force behind them now, and Merlin—

—Merlin left.

* * *

 _Shut up and smile._

That was it, wasn't it? That was it. That was everything. That was all he'd had to do—all he'd needed to do, all he _should_ have done, all he'd ever done, _shut up and smile_ because it _worked_ even when he didn't want it to, even—even when he would have given anything for _anyone_ , _anywhere_ , to see past his smiles and his silence to the tears burning behind his eyes and tightening up the back of his throat until he could barely swallow, and they never did, so he kept silent and he kept smiling and it _worked_ , even when it was the last thing he felt like doing, even when he felt so empty he was sure someone had cut him open and taken everything he had inside him out—he shut up, and he smiled, because it _worked_ and he _knew_ that, so why the hell hadn't he done it? Just shut up and smiled, just _shut the fuck up and smiled_ , or torn out his goddamned tongue the minute he tasted the terrible words fighting to fall from it because anything anything _anything_ would be better than this, than the memory of Arthur's wide and wounded eyes, and looking at Merlin like a black hole had erupted into sudden and painful existence in the center of his being, swirling faster faster faster as all the light inside him got sucked in—and _he_ had done that to him—Merlin—he had done that to _Arthur_ —everything was supposed to be for Arthur—to save him, to serve him, protect and shelter him, to put a smile on his face, to build him back up no matter how many others tore him down, and Merlin—

 _I've hurt him,_ and the truth of it pounded inside him like a second heart. _I've hurt him, and I can't take it back, and I can't fix it, and I can't make it better, and I can't—_

And then Gaius' door was there, standing firmly shut in front of him, and he hadn't realized he was going there, he hadn't even realized until he was standing in front of it—and he pushed the door open, and his hands prickled and stung and he could feel broken skin tearing anew—he hadn't realized how hard he'd struck the wall, how the stones had snagged his flesh, until now, with blood trickling down his palms—he could heal it—he didn't—he let his hands bleed, and it felt better than forcing his skin back together. He slipped into the room and turned back to close the door, slamming his head as hard as he could against the cool wood as he did, until his skull hurt as much as his hands. Hell, after what he'd done, who was to say he didn't deserve a little pain?

For a minute, he remained like that, head pressed, hard as he could stand it, to the door, and his eyes screwed shut, and the pop and crackle of the fire seemed to echo throughout the empty room—

He hadn't—he hadn't lit a fire.

He opened his eyes and he lifted his head away from the door and—

—hands hands hands on him—hands around his neck, around his throat, over his mouth and he couldn't speak and he couldn't _breathe_ and his magic roared to life inside him, like an animal, instinctive and uncontrolled, and he let it flood his veins and fill him up and build slowly in his bleeding palms, stronger and stronger and stronger, until it was all he could feel—and he spun around so quickly the whole world blurred before his eyes and the hands fell away and he could taste the incantation on his lips and he didn't stop to _think,_ he just raised his arm and he felt the power spread up into his fingers and—and—dark hair and dark eyes and a lined face staring back at him—a hesitation that lasted a fraction of a second too long as he struggled to make sense of it and—and— _pain—_ exploding sharply outward from the base of his skull and the bottom of his back to meet somewhere in the middle and so much so fast _holy fucking hell_ and the world went white around him andhe couldn't even hope to stop his mouth before it _screamed_ , taking the last of the breath the collision with the wall hadn't knocked from his lungs—little shiny stars burst into being behind his eyes like miniature suns—and a hand on his chest and a hand on his throat—a hand _around_ his throat— _again_ —circling and constricting and _crushing—_ oh, gods, no, breathe, _breathe_ , he needed to breathe, _he needed to breathe_ and he lifted shaking hands and his—his magic—it didn't—it gave a weak sort of wobble, somewhere inside him, and then fell back into dormancy and why wasn't it working why wasn't it working it always worked for him his magic always came through for him and he clawed _desperately_ at the arms that held him, short nails raking uselessly over thick velvet sleeves and everything was going dim and dark and fuzzy and _is this what it's like to die—_

Agravaine let him go.

 _Oh, thank gods,_ and then he dropped, boneless, to the floor at the foot of the wall, and _breathed_ —dragging the air into his lungs, so fast and greedy, rough and uneven and overly-loud gasps—his throat protested every desperate gulp but he didn't care, he didn't care, because he could _breathe_ —

"Did you _think_ ," a vicious snarl in Agravaine's voice, "did you _actually_ _think_ you could play me?!"

Merlin jerked his head up—he wished he hadn't, his throat throbbed with the motion—he jerked his head up just in time to see Agravaine's heavy black boot leave the floor, rear back—his head felt very full, something thick and fluffy that slowed his thoughts—the boot slammed into his stomach so hard his teeth rattled and the air in his lungs, so hard-won, left him all over again in a great, gasping _whoosh_ and he plummeted back to the floor and grabbed for his stomach, curling up in the tiniest ball he could manage—the inside of his mouth seemed to burn, flooding suddenly with something hot and thick and strangely sour—

He shot up on his knees just as the sick tore free, spilling out from between his open lips and down down down onto the floor in an endless and scorching and yellow-white stream—every nerve in his throat screamed even as the muscles worked to bring up the last of it—shaking hands clutched at his rebelling stomach—

"There, now," Agravaine dropped into a crouch at Merlin's side, "have you learned your lesson?"

"Learned—learned my—?" The words proved sharp enough to pierce the thick and fluffy something that wouldn't let him think—the murky haze in his head lifted by the barest fraction— _learned your lesson_ —like—like he was some sort of—of _disobedient, misbehaving child_ —a little boy in need of discipline—Merlin raised his head and glared into those dark eyes. _"Go to hell."_

"I have given you a _warning_ , and that, in itself, is _enormously generous_ of me," Agravaine snapped, his gaze like black ice, boring into Merlin. "But do not expect me to show you the same courtesy next time you overstep."

"You can take your courtesy and fucking _choke_ on it, you sick son of a _bitch_." Merlin pushed himself up on his hands, away from the puddle of sick curdling on the cold floor. "I swear to God, one day, Arthur _will_ see you for what you _really_ are."

"Will he?" Agravaine did not smile, but there was something in the lift of his dark brows that indicated a kind of cold pleasure all the same. He grabbed Merlin's chin, rough hands forcing up a heavy head. "And what do you think he will do when he sees _you_ for what _you_ really are?" He straightened easily back to his full height, and turned, slow and steady and deliberate, to look at the fire, burning bright on the other side of the room.

Merlin's stomach rolled—for a minute, he thought he was going to be sick again. He swallowed, and it seemed to stick a minute before going all the way down. "You—you're wrong." It sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears, but he had—he _had_ to believe it. He _had_ to believe that Arthur would spare him the shame and pain of the pyre.

"Am I?" Agravaine glanced back at him. "Perhaps you'd like a demonstration."

" _No—"_ Merlin threw out his hand, terror scraping painfully at his insides, but his magic wouldn't _listen_ , it wouldn't _come_ , _why wouldn't it come_ , it _always_ came—no—not _always_ , that was—that wasn't true—his head—his magic never did work well after he hit his head, did it—Agravaine snatched him by the wrist, jerked him up from the floor, and his skull pounded and his stomach throbbed and all the spells he'd ever learned chased themselves around inside his mind but it wouldn't work it wouldn't work _it wouldn't work_ and then he was _there_ , on his knees, on the hearthrug, surrounded by flecks of ash and cinder and Agravaine's hands on the back of his bruised and aching head—pushing him, Agravaine was pushing him, nearer and nearer and nearer and the fire was so close inches away, centimeters now, oh gods no no no he was so close no no he didn't want to burn no _please don't let me burn_ —he twisted feverishly in Agravaine's grip— _please, no, please, don't do this, not this, not fire, please_ —and his cheek—like somebody had pressed a stoker to the skin—burn burn he was going to burn _he was going to burn_ and he shut his eyes but he could still feel the fire, the smoke the soot the flames melting through the soles of his boots to devour his feet, consume his legs, swallow his waist and stomach and chest _no no no please please not fire please_ —

" _Please!"_

He didn't mean to say it—he didn't _want_ to say it—he didn't want to give Agravaine the satisfaction, but his mouth—his stupid, _stupid_ mouth—moved so fast and far ahead— _please stop please stop gods please no not this please_ —his frantic, frenzied mind, so full of fire and fear and burning flesh, couldn't hope to keep up— _gods please no stop please please_ —his heart threw itself against his ribs like a captive animal fighting to escape its cage but too late it was _too late_ it couldn't get free and it was going to burn just like the rest of him and how much would it hurt and maybe maybe _maybe_ the smoke would send him into eternal sleep before the flames could and _gods he hoped so_ —

The hands—the hands disappeared—the hands on the back of his head disappeared the hands pushing and pushing and pushing him into the fire—gone gone the hands were _gone_ and he jerked back as fast as he could, scrambling away from the blaze and he—he wanted to—to _run_ —clear to the other side of the room, clear to the other side of the _castle_ , anything anything _anything_ to _get away_ just _get away_ but his limbs wouldn't listen to him and when he tried to stand up his legs wouldn't let him and he collapsed and he couldn't get away he couldn't get away _he couldn't get away_ and shaking shaking shaking he was shaking and he couldn't—he couldn't _stop_ —he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't feel anymore—his hands his arms his legs—none of it was real, none of it belonged to him—all he could feel was the fire's scorching tongue dancing over his skin and maybe if he tore the flesh from his bones he could finally _stop stop just fucking stop_ —

Agravaine spoke, so softly Merlin nearly missed it over the horrible hissing of the flames in the hearth, and he had to shut his eyes and shut out the fire just to hear the words.

" _That,"_ soquiet, so steady, "is what Arthur would do if he knew who you _really_ are."

And it wasn't true, it wasn't wasn't _wasn't_ true Arthur _wouldn't_ do that, Arthur was _good_ , but the words got lost between his mind and his mouth and—and hands, reaching for him, and he flinched and prayed prayed _prayed_ he wouldn't go back to the fire, but the hands only grasped for his chin and pulled his head up until he was staring into the gleaming black eyes that made his stomach lurch.

"And he _would not_ ," Agravaine continued quietly, yet his every word carried easily over the crackling of the flames, "he _would not_ be so merciful as I. He would not stop when you ask."

 _He would,_ Merlin wanted to say, but he _couldn't—_ because—

"I could make it happen, you know—it would be so _easy_ —"

— _pure evil pure evil pure evil—_

"—I could tell him—I could tell them _all_ what you are—"

— _magic is pure evil_ and how could Merlin have ever let himself hope that anything could ever be any different—?

Agravaine's fingers tightened on Merlin's face. " _Remember that,_ Merlin." So close now their lips nearly brushed, so close Merlin could feel hot breath on his burned cheek. "The next time you get an idea in that head of yours—" his free hand rose, fisted in Merlin's dark hair, jerked his pounding skull painfully from one side to the other—Merlin wrenched away on instinct, one hand jumping to his head—

"— _remember that,"_ Agravaine hissed, his black eyes ablaze. "If I wanted to, if I felt like it, if you cause too much trouble, if I decide I'm through with you, I can ruin you in a _second_."

"I—I'm not," Merlin said, and he hated how tight his heart had twisted up inside him, coils in his chest that would never come loose. "I'm _not_ afraid of you." He wished his voice sounded stronger. He wished he could stop shaking and he clenched his hands into fists to try and still them—gods, if the druids could see their prophesized savior now, flinching in the face of a man without a drop of magic in his veins—

" _Then you should be,"_ Agravaine countered. "I can you have in a cell—I can you have on the pyre—and I can have it done in a _heartbeat_. So _keep_ ," his lips moved slowly, a subtle, ringing emphasis on every single word, "your pretty mouth _shut_." He drew back—drew away—he let go of Merlin's chin—and he—he _smiled_ —he _actually smiled_ at Merlin—reached out a hand—

—Merlin flinched, on instinct, and he _hated_ it—

—and then his fingers made contact, a light, brisk pat to Merlin's still-stinging cheek—

And then Agravaine was on his feet and then he was across the room and then he was out the door and "Have a good night, Merlin," and the door fell back into its frame with a soft _click_.

And—

— _if Arthur knew what you really are if any of them knew what you really are that's what would happen if Arthur knew what you really are if any of them knew what you really are I can ruin you in a second he would not stop he would not be so merciful as I remember that if I decide I'm through with you in a cell on the pyre in a heartbeat keep your pretty mouth shut—_

—and a series of sobs, raw and wracking, ripped their way out of his throat, so horrific and loud and _ugly_ and echoing—echoing echoing echoing off every wall—the cold stone caught the sound and threw it back to him—and he hated it— _he hated it_ —he clamped a hand over his mouth and tried to stop to swallow it back to _shut up shut up shut up_ _why couldn't he ever just shut up_ why couldn't he stop crying why couldn't he stop crying why couldn't he stop shaking, _fuck,_ it wasn't that bad it wasn't that bad _it wasn't that fucking bad_ so why couldn't he just _shut up_ —and the—the _fire_ —the fire crackled and the fire hissed and the fire popped and it wouldn't stop it wouldn't stop _it wouldn't ever stop_ —he couldn't— _he couldn't_ —and shuddering hands clapped down over his ears tighter tighter tighter—anything to shut out the sound anything anything anything so he didn't have to—to listen to the—the _fire_ —

And, with his hands still pressed fast against his ears, Merlin buried his face in the hearthrug and cried.

 _Why didn't I just shut up and smile?_

* * *

 **Notes: OKAY SO it has been a real hot sec since my last update ((a full two months, actually, but who's counting except me, and that's only to guilt myself into writing lmao)) BUT it is also twice the length of my usual chapters. I feel like that should really count for something. Anyway, I'm really sorry to do this to you guys ((AGAIN r i p)) but I honestly don't know when I'll be updating this one again. Definitely going to shoot for one more before Christmas, but I'll be the first to admit I may have overcommitted myself a bit this holiday ((and every year before, yes, I KNOW, I do this every year)) and while I'm really super excited, I'm also going to be really super _busy_. But I mean, absence makes the heart grow fonder, so hopefully I'll return to this fic with a renewed passion for it? ((Not that I'm not ****_already_** **ridiculously passionate about it, but like. You know what I mean.))**

 **Oh, quick note on Merlin's magic by the way: Magic seems to take a hell of a lot of focus in the show, and you've gotta be hella specific what you want that magic to _do_ once it leaves you and, even then, some sorcerers seem to use objects or conduits ((crystals, staffs, etc.)) to help with that focus and specificity. It just makes sense to me that Merlin, whose magic is far more powerful, instinctive, and uncontrolled, than anyone else's - honestly more on par with dragons and the Sidhe and the like than fellow human sorcerers - well, it just makes sense to me that Merlin would need a lot _more_ focus than your average mage, especially as, unlike most, he uses objects so _rarely_. So if anything happens to impede that focus and concentration - a blow to the prefrontal or parietal cortex, for example, the latter of which he almost certainly received when he hit the wall - his magic takes a while to recover. It's nothing permanent, and up until now, Merlin's regarded it as little more than an inconvenience.**

 **And thank you guys, so much, for all your patience and support. I'd be nowhere without it. I'm so happy you're enjoying this story.**


	5. Got Intentions of Gold With My Plans

"Your eyes say so much to me, your eyes say so,  
Your eyes say so much to me, your eyes say so,  
Nobody knows who I am,  
I've got intentions of gold with my plans."

\- _Gold_ , Echos

* * *

In the cool, pale light of predawn, with the sun rising, slow and sluggish, over the mountains, their towering, snow-capped peaks nothing but dark and distant ridges on the dim horizon, shrouded in the early-morning mists and fog—in the first, tentative tendrils of the new day creeping like thieves through the narrow gaps in the thick red curtains, in the thin yellow bars slithering across the cold stones of the walls and floor, sneaking up the sides of the quilts and covers dangling off the edges of the large bed and turning the rumpled, snow-white sheets even whiter everywhere they touched—

In the cool, pale light of predawn, Arthur could close his eyes, and clench his fists, and tell himself the night before had only been a dream.

 _Oh_. How he wished it had been.

 _You've known Morgana since you were a child!_

The words seemed to echo, all the way through him, as if his bones caught the sound of Merlin's voice, held it there a minute, and threw it back, up into his lungs, a hard and heavy block he couldn't breathe around and up into the back of his throat, where it seared and scorched like bile, thick and hot and sour, and on up into his head where it scraped and scratched like a rabid creature at the insides of his throbbing skull, where it burrowed down into his brain and gnawed like a feral, starving animal at all the cells, the synapses, blood squelching and bones snapping under the sharp, tearing teeth of it.

 _You've known Morgana since you were a child!_

The words seemed to echo, all the way through him, as if his bones caught the sound of Merlin's voice, held it there a minute, and threw it back, and it was still better than all the things Merlin _hadn't_ said, better than the accusations ringing so clear in his roaring voice, in the wrath in his eyes, in the snarl on his lips.

 _You've known Morgana since you were a child and you didn't know, you didn't realize, you were too stupid and self-absorbed to see the magic as it took her over and hardened her heart and corrupted her and turned her into everything she wasn't, to see her friendship was a lie, all a lie—_

— _all a lie—_

Arthur's stomach clenched.

All those times she'd smiled at him, all those times she'd laughed with him, teased him, advised him, guided him, consoled him, marched out onto the training field armed with nothing but her own thrice-damned stubbornness and _demanded_ he fight with her—

How much of it had been a lie? How much of their friendship had been a lie, a game to her, and he a pretty, delicate, dim-witted glass pawn to move about the board as she chose, but not to know the truth about her heritage, not to know the secret of her magic, not to know _anything at all_ , be believed in, not to be—

— _trusted—_

But how could she not know? How could she not have known, how could she not have realized—? Her magic would have been nothing, nothing at all, not to Arthur, he wouldn't have cared, he wouldn't have cared about the magic and he wouldn't have cared about her heritage, he wouldn't have, he _wouldn't_ —he would have gotten her out of Camelot, would have smuggled her from the city, he would have—he would have—when he took the throne—

He would have lifted the ban on magic for her.

He would have stopped the executions. The raids. The burning, and the witch hunts, and all of it, he would have stopped all of it, and for her, all for her, he would have stopped it, all of it, in a heartbeat, all for her, anything for her, _everything_ for her—

And how long would it have taken, then, for him to realize, how long would it have taken for him to see that his father had been right all along, that magic had no place in Camelot? He hadn't seen the true depth of magic and its evil, not yet, not then, not even then, when it stole Morgana away from him, when the crown gleamed dully amid her dark curls, and her lips twisted up in that cold, proud smile—even then, he hadn't seen, not yet, not until the old sorcerer with his lies and his treachery and his hatred—

No, the magic wouldn't have mattered to Arthur, not then, not in the slightest—none of it would have mattered to him, really, not when it came to her, it wouldn't have made him love her any less, he wouldn't have turned her in to his father, _their_ father—he couldn't seem to swallow, when he thought of it like that.

He would have helped her.

He would have—would have taken her to Gaius, maybe he could have found something, a—an artifact, maybe, to bind her magic, so she couldn't use it anymore, and it couldn't corrupt her, and she'd be all right—and would that have even _worked_ —?

He would have helped her.

However far down the path of sorcery Morgana had strayed, she could have turned back. She could have come to him.

He would have helped her.

And what had he done so _wrong_ to make her think he _wouldn't_?

Had Morgana really thought so little of him, even then? Had she really thought he'd turn his back on her? Haul her down to the dungeons? Toss her in a cage? Hang her on the gallows? Burn her on a pyre?

 _And why not?_ Said the horrible voice Merlin had used in the corridor last night. _Why not, you've done it before, haven't you, a blind eye, that's what you always do, isn't it, gods know you're so good at it—_

In the cool, pale light of predawn, Arthur had to close his eyes and clench his fists and tell himself the awful sound ripping its way from his mouth was not a sob.

Morgana could have come to him.

He would have helped her.

But she hadn't, because she hadn't realized he would help her, she hadn't known, and how could he blame her, how could he ever blame her? After all the times he'd condemned magic, all the times he'd spat the word _sorcery_ like an obscene profanity, all the times he'd stepped aside and let innocent citizens die in agony and terror, all the times he'd laughed at her fears, all the times he'd dismissed her nightmares as nothing, and all those times, every single one, he'd been pushing her, hadn't he, farther and farther away, farther and farther out of his reach—she must have thought he would have slaughtered her without a moment's hesitation if he'd known, and if he could just—if he could just _go back_ , and _try again_ —if he could just do it over again, he'd do it so differently, he'd be kinder, braver, nobler, better—she wouldn't have had to succumb to the magic, she wouldn't have _had_ to become a monster, he would have found a way to stop it, he would have found a way to take the magic from her, just get it out of her, just _get it out_ —Morgana would never have had a doubt in her mind that she could trust him with the truth, never a doubt that he would have done everything in his power to save her—

 _You've known Morgana since you were a child,_ said the horrible-Merlin-in-the-corridor voice, and this, then, was what his servant had left unspoken last night, wasn't it, _you've known Morgana since you were a child,_ _but you still weren't good enough to save her._

* * *

In the cool, pale light of predawn, spilling like water through the dusty glass of Gaius' uncovered windows, gleaming dully on the clear sides of crystal bottles and vials, bleaching the pages of books lying open on the benches a blinding white, shimmering in faint, golden whispers all along the floor, creeping coils slinking up Merlin's knee and crisscrossing over his stomach, gliding along his shoulders, snaking up to his face—

In the cool, pale light of predawn, with the hard edge of the bench digging into his back, into the bruises, and he pressed himself into the rough, uneven wood and let it hurt, like the fork in Gaius' chambers, a thousand dots of striking radiance and sharp silver on his skin and _pain_ , and it hurt him, and it brought him back to himself, and he let it.

He scrubbed a sluggish hand over his tired eyes, itchy and aching, lashes dry and crusted with the strain of another sleepless night, and pulled his cracked lips up in a small, painful smile.

He murmured the words, over and over and over again, tasting the strange and ancient language on his tongue—maybe taking every last relevant word of the Old Religion and mashing them together like a proper incantation had been overkill, but it didn't matter now. It was better this way, anyway. He didn't want to take any chances, didn't want his magic to misunderstand him.

He whispered the spell into the small and sunlit and silent chamber one more time, letting the old stones surrounding him soak up the sound of the forbidden. Even with the words scarcely more than a sigh on his lips, it tore furiously at the back of his bruised and throbbing throat, and he winced and rubbed gingerly at the tender, swollen beneath his scarf.

 _No matter what_ —Merlin shut his eyes against the blazing radiance of the rising sun, and he could see Agravaine's hand on Arthur's shoulder, could see the shadow of a smile ghosting across his thin lips, hear the honey in his voice, too thick and too sweet— _no matter what, I will take care of this kingdom._

* * *

Arthur expected Merlin to start talking.

He _waited_ for it, even—goddamn it, but he actually _waited_ for it, he lay as still as he could in the tangled sheets and he _listened_ for it, because Merlin, well, he _always_ talked, didn't he—it was just what he _did_ , wasn't it, and Arthur couldn't shut him up, and certainly not for lack of trying either—no, Arthur could _never_ shut him up, it was part of what made him _Merlin_ , and if he started talking, if he just started talking— _please, Merlin, open your big stupid mouth and start talking_ —if he started talking, Arthur could close his eyes and clench his fists and tell himself the horrible-Merlin-in-the-corridor-voice was wrong.

But Merlin didn't start talking.

He slipped soundlessly into the room, a shadow as he moved through the chamber, his steps swift and silent and sure. He set down the breakfast tray balanced on his arm—set it down, on the table, without so much as a clatter. He pulled open the curtains. He stared out at the city through the dirty glass, fingers fisting around the stiff red drapes. He didn't call for Arthur to "rise and shine, Sire!"

 _You've known Morgana since you were a child._

Arthur shut his eyes.

 _But you still weren't good enough to save her._

* * *

It took all of two seconds to actually place the spell on Agravaine—hours of preparation and memorization and furious practice distilled down to a single moment, less than a heartbeat, the familiar burn behind his eyes, the pulse of power thrumming in his veins, the rush of magic as it left his body—

—and then it was done, it was over, it was complete, and a fine golden mist settled lightly over Agravaine's tall, thin form, invisible to all but Merlin, and his smile was a triumphant twist of the lip, a savagely satisfied baring of the teeth, as he tipped the metal pitcher, heavy with the wine still sloshing in the bottom, over the rim of Agravaine's goblet.

 _No matter what_ —and every step hurt like hell with the stretch and pull of bruised and battered skin, under his shirt, under his scarf, up and down his legs, where Agravaine had hit him, had kicked him, hadchoked him, had _fucked_ him, but Merlin kept his back straight anyway, and he didn't think about it, he didn't he didn't he didn't, because if he did, if he let the bruises on his body be real, if he let last night be real, if he let what Agravaine had done be real—

His fingers, trembling with the force of the power he had only just unleashed, tightened around the cool metal handle of the pitcher.

 _No matter what, I will take care of this kingdom._

* * *

Arthur rubbed blearily at his burning eyes for what felt like the millionth time, grinding in, hard, with the heel of his hand, shaking fingers still clutching the thin scroll, Sir Ulfius' tiny, tidy handwriting blazing stark and black amidst the sea of bleached white. Just another report in the mass of thousands, all gathered up on his desk in a disorganized heap—

"Sire."

Arthur swallowed a groan. _Brilliant._ So _Merlin_ had decided to open his idiotic mouth _now_ of all times. He'd been so silent so long now, a mere shadow at Arthur's heels—the odd _yes, Sire_ or _no, Sire_ , or once even a _let me get that for you, Sire_ , but that was—that was it, that was all, because gods forbid things could be that simple—if Merlin would just give one of his stupid smiles and start chattering away, Arthur could know, he could be sure that things were okay and the horrible Merlin-voice-in-the-corridor had been wrong and—

"Sire." Merlin stepped forward, the soles of his thin boots slapping against the stone floor. "It's late."

"Well spotted, Merlin," Arthur sniped, before he could stop himself. _And_ _if you'd like to leave, you might as well just leave, I'm hardly going to keep you here all night, and you know that and I know you don't want to be here, I know that, I know that, I know—_

Merlin admirably ignored the jibe—he lifted his chin by the barest fraction, that familiar, stubborn set to his jaw. Oh, wonderful, the idiot really wasn't going to let this go, for some unknown Merlin-reason. "Sire, you've been working on those reports for a while now. You should get some rest."

Arthur stilled in his seat, hand halfway to his smarting eyes to try another ineffective scrub. Oh. So that was—that was—that was unexpected. All right. He straightened, and unfurled Sir Ulfius' scroll again. "Thank you for your concern, Merlin." He smoothed the paper flat on the desktop with his palm.

Merlin huffed somewhere above him—Arthur instinctively tightened his hold on the report—his servant had been known to _snatch things out of his hands_ if he felt he wasn't being listened to, which was really—improper, now that Arthur thought about it.

"Arthur," Merlin said, and he—he called him _Arthur_ — _Arthur_ —not _Sire_ — "c'mon, you've got to be _exhausted_. It's not good to do this to yourself. The work will still be there tomorrow—"

"No," Arthur cut him off, "it _won't_ be there tomorrow, Merlin, I have to get it finished _tonight_. The patrol routes have to be finalized tomorrow, and I have that meeting at midday, and—and—"

Merlin plopped himself down, entirely without prompt or invitation, into the chair round the opposite side of the desk, grabbed at least a dozen papers off the top of the stack, and dragged them across the polished desktop toward himself.

Arthur blinked. "Merlin."

Merlin ignored him.

" _Mer_ lin."

"Do you mind? I'm trying to read."

" _Merlin!"_

"This Sir Bedivere," Merlin said thoughtfully, flicking the page in his hand over to reveal more writing crammed on the flip side, "verbose, isn't he?"

"Yes," Arthur huffed, thoroughly displeased with the entire situation but at a complete loss as to how to rectify it, short of summoning a few guards to physically haul Merlin from the chambers. "I've often thought the two of you would get along wonderfully."

Merlin smiled—barely anything, really, a small quirk at the corner of his lip, nothing like his usual stupid, beaming grins that showed all his teeth and made it look like he was about to split his face, but—

—but—

—but Arthur, for some absurd reason, felt a tug at his mouth, too.

* * *

Gaius' chambers were dark and silent and shockingly cold when Merlin eased the door open and slipped inside, his breath spilling out of his mouth in pearly silver wisps—it wasn't proper winter, not just yet, but the last of the leaves had left the trees last week, and the first snow couldn't be far off—it seemed every year he managed to forget, in the heat and light of beautiful summer, how the cold set in at autumn's end, all the way down to his bones.

Merlin kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot and stretched his aching arms up over his head, wincing at the pain pulsing, wild and sharp and _furious_ , through his bruised body—fucking _Christ_ , maybe he just needed to grit his teeth and take a few potions to dull it—maybe he just needed to take a few potions that would let him close his eyes and fall _asleep_ tonight—that might be a lost cause already, he admitted ruefully to himself, as he weaved his careful way, in the darkness, through the cluttered chambers over to the narrow staircase—even if he wasn't straining with every last ounce of magic to feel when the spell over Agravaine finally activated, the cold that pierced through his clothes and down into his skin like needles promised to keep him wide awake. There was no way he was going to get warm enough to slip into slumber—maybe—Merlin glanced at the darkened hearth—he ought to get a fire going and sit up by the grate until morning—

— _and what do you think he will do when he sees you for what you really are—_

—the flecks of ash and cinder on the hearthrug and the flames on his face and the smoke in his lungs and burning burning burning and the _pop_ and _crackle_ and _hiss_ and _snap_ and _no please not fire anything but fire please_ and _that is what Arthur would do if he knew who you really are_ —

No.

No, on second thought, fire didn't sound so good, after all.

* * *

 **Notes: O O F IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG. I'm SO sorry for such an extended and unexpected absence, but if it helps, it was a surprise even to me, lmao. I DID NOT expect to take so long with this chapter at all, but writer's block hit HARD, and then a thousand little things kept getting in the way until it was literally a miracle when I got even so much as a word per day on this. (I'm not going to lie, I didn't get a goddamn word on this last Friday. How to Train Your Dragon 3 fucking shattered my heart. I spent, like, half the day just sobbing.)**

 **Anyway, so this was a fun chapter! It was great, getting to explore Arthur's perspective to this extent, as Merlin and the brief snippet we got at the end of chapter 2 can really only tell us so much. I'm not one hundred percent sure how in-character Arthur's acting, exactly, but I'm hoping it turned out okay anyway. And, yes, I'll be the first to admit, this chapter's a little slow, but I figured, as the fic is going to get a hell of a lot worse from here on out (for the characters, I mean. Hopefully it won't "get worse", as in, my writing/plot/characterization etc. takes any more nosedives. I'm literally a monkey playing with alphabet blocks when I sit down to write okay fgfgfvb cut me some slack pls). Anyway. Basically, it's only going to get darker from here on out, so it seemed a bit of a respite was in order.**


	6. If You Knew the Truth, You'd Hate Me

"I sleep all day, I prowl at night,

Do anything to feel alive,

I'm in the end just what you made me.

I look the same, but I'm not fine,

The master of my own disguise,

If you knew the truth, you'd probably hate me."

\- _Monster,_ Beth Crowley

* * *

"Holy _fuck_ ," Gwaine said, with all his usual grace and eloquence. "You look worse than cold _shit_."

"Oh. Another admirer," Merlin said, very flatly, because he couldn't say _yes, thank you, Gwaine, I know how to look in a mirror, it's really not that difficult, you know._ Even with the headache stabbing up through the base of his skull like Arthur's best sword, even with the bruises throbbing like _fuck_ all over his body, even with the exhaustion dragging at him with merciless fingers and sharp nails, he couldn't find it in himself to be that mean. Not to Gwaine. "Whatever will I do with all of you."

" _Merlin_ ," Gwaine said, uncharacteristically serious, dark brows dipping low, "what the _hell_ happened to you?"

 _What the hell happened to you?_ Merlin almost laughed at the question— _what the hell happened to you,_ like there was any good way to answer _that_.

It was kind of a case of what the hell _hadn't_ happened, at this point.

Agravaine had found out about his magic—his secret, _illegal_ magic that Arthur would toss him on an actual _pyre_ for, because that was just how it was here in Camelot, wasn't it, where existing wrong was a crime punishable by painful and dehumanizing death, and now he had to turn around and bed a man twice his age just so he wouldn't tell anyone about the secret, illegal magic that could get him killed in the first place, and if he was being honest, Merlin was about three seconds away right now from bursting into Arthur's chambers and telling his king the truth _himself_ , because fire was looking like a better option all the time than living out the rest of his natural life like some kind of—of—tavern whore, would be the closest thing, and gods, wasn't _that_ just the icing on the chocolate-cake-Cook-would-kill-you-for-nicking-a-bite-of at this point—and he hadn't even changed his clothes in the last two days because the idea of looking at himself and seeing what Agravaine had done to him was making him so sick he could _scream_ , and also, he had just found out Agravaine was working for Morgana, because that man's depravity just really knew no bounds, huh, wasn't _that_ hard to believe, and now Morgana and Agravaine had some sort of secret plan and no one knew anything about it and he was trying like hell to figure it out except Agravaine wouldn't cooperate and activate the spell and Merlin could scream about _that_ , too, and he had _tried_ to tell Arthur about all this, sans magic and blackmail and spells that unwilling and unwitting victims wouldn't activate for him, but he really could have just told him everything because it wasn't like Arthur had believed him, anyway, or even listened, really, and so now the entire kingdom was going to fall any second into Morgana's twisted hands, and he couldn't do anything about it, ever, even when he was trying his _damndest_ because Agravaine wouldn't _activate the stupid spell_ , and even if he _did_ , would it even—would it even matter, because he was one step ahead, he was _always_ one step ahead of Merlin, always just out of reach, and always knowing just a _little_ _bit more_ , and Jesus _fuck_ , when had the world gotten to the point that _Agravaine_ was an actual threat to—to anyone at all, much less the _whole kingdom_ , and Morgana was going to kill everyone, or actually, now that he stopped to think about it, she was just going to kill Arthur, and maybe the knights, definitely Gwen, too—and then she'd turn around and enslave all the rest of them, and it was going to be _all his fault,_ because for gods' sakes, Agravaine had been living and plotting and scheming _right under his nose_ for an _entire year_ at this point, and he hadn't ever realized, hadn't ever discovered, hadn't ever taken a closer look, because _obviously_ , Agravaine was no threat, right, just a shallow, self-centered, vapid little man who cared for nothing but the silks on his skin and the curl to his hair, no threat at all, barely enough brains even if he wanted to do something treacherous—and for an _entire year_ , Merlin had _believed_ that—could he really blame Arthur, could he really blame Arthur _at all_ when he'd been just as—just as taken in, just as easily fooled, with Agravaine's act, and wasn't it just another thing to add to the pile at this point, another failure—getting tricked by Agravaine, getting blackmailed and—and _fucked_ by Agravaine, and failing Camelot, failing to protect her, and her king, and her people—after everything else he'd done, after—after Lancelot, after letting Lancelot die, just—just standing back and letting him die, and killing Arthur's father—he let his friend die, and he let his friend's father die, and was there really any farther for him to fall, hadn't he hit rock fucking bottom at this point—?

"Hey," Gwaine grabbed at his arm—not hard, it didn't hurt, but Merlin went still and silent and didn't dare pull away, and _don't touch me, stop touching me, why is he touching me, why is he touching me_ —and waited until Merlin had met his eyes, "hey, Merlin, when—uh, when was the last time you slept, mate?"

Merlin didn't want to laugh. Not this time. It wasn't—it wasn't funny anymore. It never really had been, and he didn't—he didn't know how to answer Gwaine's question, he didn't know how long it had been—a week, two, but he didn't know anymore, and it felt so much longer than that, like a thousand years had passed since Agravaine had kissed him at the coronation, and he didn't—he didn't care to count it out, because every time he closed his eyes, all he could see and all he could feel and all he could hear, Agravaine's face and Agravaine's hands and Agravaine's voice, waiting for him, so patiently in the dark, his black eyes gleaming and his hands all over Merlin's own shaking, shuddering body and his voice low and husky with desire as he whispered _oh, so you do like it a bit rough, don't you, Merlin,_ and _I'm sure the stable boys can't keep their hands off you,_ and _if I am to keep your secret, I do deserve some form of recompense_ , and every time Merlin jerked awake, he jerked awake in the freezing darkness of his own bedroom, in his own rickety bed, with his own thin and fraying quilt, and he told himself, a thousand times as the hitching and jagged and sharp and aching breaths ripped at his lungs like the claws of wild things, he told himself _I'm not there anymore, I'm not with Agravaine, I'm here, I'm here in my room and how am I going to protect Camelot if I'm weak like this, how am I going to protect Arthur if I'm weak like this_ —

"I—" Merlin shook himself— _goddamn it, pay attention to Gwaine, I need to pay attention to Gwaine_ — "—I'm fine." He wondered if he sounded as pathetic to Gwaine as he did to himself.

Gwaine snorted. Well. That answered that. " _Bullshit._ You look worse than the princess after he's had a spar with Percival, and _that's_ sayin' something."

Merlin rolled his eyes. Of all the _fucking_ times for Gwaine to start getting _perceptive_ , and _noticing things_. "Thanks."

"Merlin," Gwaine said seriously—even more seriously than before, more seriously than Merlin had ever heard him, "y'know, if anyone's givin' you any trouble—"

"Wh-what?" For a split second, Merlin's heart stopped beating in his aching chest— _if anyone's giving you any trouble—_

"Don't look at me like that." Gwaine cocked an incredulous brow. "You're walkin' roun' like a beaten horse. And your cheek's got a burn the size of my sword."

"I-I'm fine," Merlin managed, even as his mouth went dry and his hand flew on instinct to his cheek and his brain fell into a monotonous loop of _shit shit SHIT_. No one ever noticed the things he didn't want them to notice. No one ever saw the things he didn't want them to see. That was the way it worked. And if they did—if they ever caught the shadow of a bruise under his shirt, or a puckered pink scar trailing up his wrist when he hitched up his sleeve, the circles under his eyes or a spot of blood soaking through his trouser leg, it never took more than a second to throw them off the scent. To shut his mouth and smile wide, and then they knew he was okay, they knew he was fine, and everything worked out for everybody, and nobody ever had to know about the three sleepless nights standing at his back, or the knight who'd hit him in the armory yesterday or the evil sorcerer plotting against Camelot who wanted Merlin to join him and who could conveniently tear open the skin of anyone who refused to join him without ever actually touching them—

"So," Gwaine continued seriously, as if there'd been no interruption, "if anyone's givin' you any trouble—"

" _No."_ Merlin was ready for it this time, and he snapped the answer out of his mouth like a taut rubber band, like something pulled, and stretched, and strained, at every inch, every corner. This wasn't—this wasn't a conversation that was going to happen right now. Or this week. This month. This year. _Ever_. He didn't have much to call his own right now, but he had the my-friends-don't-know-I'm-fucking-someone-because-he'll-have-Arthur-kill-me-if-I-don't card, and he didn't intend on throwing it away just because Gwaine got nosy. "I'm _fine_."

" _If anyone's givin' you any trouble,"_ Gwaine repeated, very loudly, like he hadn't heard, or like Merlin hadn't even said anything to start with, "you _know_ I'll give you a hand, right? You _know_ I'll give that _bastard_ a—"

"I said I'm _fine_ , Gwaine!" Merlin said sharply, and he jerked, out and away, from the strong, black-gloved hand still holding onto him, still gripping at his arm—Gwaine _wouldn't_ give him a hand, Gwaine wouldn't give him _anything_ , not if he knew the truth, the _whole_ truth—even if he could get past the magic bit, there'd still be the rest of it to deal with, and Merlin knew better than to believe that what he'd done with Agravaine was something he could come back from—

Gwaine stumbled back a pace in surprise—had to be surprise, no way Merlin could knock him back like that, he had a good hundred pounds of pure muscle on Merlin—and he stared, for a second, like Merlin had reached out and struck him.

An instant later, and a cold wash of guilt crashed over Merlin like a frigid ocean wave, stinging every last inch of him, all the way down to his bones.

 _Why did I do that, why did I do that, what the fuck is wrong with me—?_

"All right," Gwaine said at last. "So you're fine."

* * *

"Undress," Agravaine whispered into Merlin's ear, lips wet and voice low in the dark, in the shadows, and he trailed one hand delicately along Merlin, fingers spidering slowly down the skin of Merlin's cheek, Merlin's throat, Merlin's shoulders and spine and ribs, "undress for me. And—" he pressed a soft, swift kiss to Merlin's mouth, "and give me a light, because I would very much like to watch."

Merlin hissed out sharply through his teeth at these words— _I would very much like to watch_ , because of course he would, the foul, depraved _pig_ —but he didn't say anything, he didn't—he didn't say _no_ , he didn't say he'd rather chew broken glass than undress himself for Agravaine, he didn't say anything at all, because there was still a burn, blazing angry red and pink on the side of his face, and it still hurt to move, and it still hurt to even breathe, and _I can ruin you in a second_ and what—what would even be the _point_ anymore? No matter which way he tried to turn, no matter what he tried to do, Agravaine could always block him, always stop him, always find a way to get him right back where he'd started. There was nothing he could do. Not yet, not right now, not at the moment. Not until the spell activated.

Then— _then_ —

Well. Then, he was taking Agravaine down, even if he had to burn on a pyre to do it.

Merlin swallowed, hard, and reached out for the tinderbox. The metal felt shockingly cold under his fingers.

"No," Agravaine's hand, warm and firm, closed around his own. "No. Use your magic."

"My—?" Merlin couldn't seem to get the word off his tongue. His magic. Agravaine wanted him to use his magic. Maybe he'd—maybe he'd misheard. He had to have misheard. No one _ever_ wanted him to use magic. Gaius didn't want him to use his magic. Gaius didn't ever want him to use his magic— _what if someone were to walk in and see you_ , he said, at least a hundred times a day, every time Merlin raised his hand, every time he flicked his fingers or let his eyes flash gold, and Merlin wondered more than he should if it was really the thought of him being discovered that scared Gaius so much, or—

—or just _him_.

Just him.

Just him, and the sheer magnitude of the power he held inside his body.

"Your magic," Agravaine said quietly. "Use your magic. Give me a light like the ball you made. Last time."

Merlin hesitated, a fraction of a second longer— _trap, it's a trap, it's a trap, don't do it, it's a trap_ —but at last he lifted a shaking hand up in the dark, and with a brief, searing burn behind his eyes, the familiar, bright silver orb dazzled brilliantly in his palm, warm and solid and throwing its cool radiance into every shadowy corner of the chamber. He could see Agravaine's face, mere inches from his own, and the gleam of metal from the tinderbox still on the desk.

"You— " Agravaine said, voice strangled, and slightly hushed, "you are—"

 _Bad. Evil. Wrong. Defective. Terrifying. Dangerous. Corrupt. Too powerful to live. Too powerful to be human. A monster._

A million different paths to go down here, but only one real way this sentence could end, so Merlin set his jaw and waited for it, waited for that inevitable you-shouldn't-exist, that unavoidable you-were-born-wrong—he wondered if a day would ever go by without the echo of King Uther burning the insides of his ears—

"— _beautiful,"_ Agravaine said, and there was unbridled awe in his black eyes and a wild sort of wonder in his voice, and—

—it wasn't a trap, it wasn't a trick, he'd just—he'd just asked to see Merlin's magic because—because he wanted to—no one had ever—no one had ever wanted to see it before—not ever—not _once_ —

"You're not—?" The words stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. He couldn't seem to settle on the right one. Horrified? Disgusted? Repulsed? "You're not afraid?" He didn't even know what made him say it, _he did not even know what made him say it,_ and that—that _scared_ him.

"Afraid?" Agravaine laughed lightly. "What is there to be afraid of?"

 _Oh_. Merlin had to push back, hard, against the warm, swooping rush of joy surging up into his chest at Agravaine's words— _what is there to be afraid of,_ like he didn't—like _he didn't think magic was dangerous_ , like he didn't see anything wrong with it, like he didn't think anyone who had it was a monster for something they couldn't even control—

 _Of course he's not afraid of magic, he's working for Morgana, it's safe to say he's seen it up close plenty of times, and he's dragged you in here to make you bed him just because_ you _have magic, do you really think he's some sort of selfless champion for sorcerers just because he likes your stupid ball of light?_

Right, yes, of course, _Morgana_ , the man in front of him was working for Morgana, and _gods, Merlin, what were you thinking_?

Merlin tore his favorite scarf from his throat with rough, inelegant fingers, and tossed the heap of red to the desk with one short, sharp jerk of the wrist. "Stop _looking_ at it. It's just a ball of light."

"It's extraordinary," Agravaine said, still with that unbridled awe and wild wonder.

"It's a ball of light," Merlin said harshly, and ripped off his jacket—he'd rend another hole in it, at this rate, but he was too furious to even _care_.

" _Slowly_ , Merlin," Agravaine admonished him, finally tearing his eyes from the stupid light and turning to look at him instead. "Slowly. I want to _see_."

Merlin ground his teeth together. _"I'm sure you do."_

"Why wouldn't I?" Agravaine's dark eyes danced over him. "You're quite a pretty thing, you know."

"You're quite a _pig_ , you know," Merlin said, but under his breath, and put his jacket down on the desk beside his scarf. He hesitated, half a second, one hand fisting in the hem of his tunic. He didn't—he didn't want to see what was waiting for him under his shirt, under his—under his— _he didn't want_ —

"Whatever are you waiting for, Merlin?" Agravaine raised his eyebrows coldly. "Keep going."

"You said _slowly_ ," Merlin murmured bitterly, and mostly to himself, but he pulled his shirt up over his head anyway, quick so he didn't have to think about it, so he didn't have to see, because it was the only way he was going to get through it at all. As the coarse fabric scratched at his skin, and fell from his body, he could see the bruises—in the ball's pool of blinding silver light, he could see the bruises, could see them winding their way over his skin like a river on a map, he could see them spreading and blossoming like the perverse imitation of purple flowers, burgeoning and blooming along the swollen flesh of his stomach, and he could see them trailing away to his back in a stream of inky blue and pale green, and he could see them straggling down his ribcage in little bursts of blazing violet, and stringing lazily along the hollow of his throat, he could _see_ them, and the ones he couldn't see, he could _feel_ , and he had to stop then, and he had to swallow, hard, because he didn't want to see, _he didn't want to see_ —

"Magnificent," Agravaine hooked an arm around Merlin's bare waist, pulling him closer. "Just when I think you couldn't be more beautiful." He pressed his fingers lightly into the mottled skin of Merlin's stomach, and pain flared up, like wildfire, at the place where his hands met flesh.

" _Magnificent_ ," Merlin repeated incredulously, after a moment, voice strained and taut with pain, "well, _that's_ a relief to hear. I'm so glad you like it." His breath hitched as Agravaine's hands traced a path of agony along his ribs, but he didn't let himself stop talking, didn't let himself shut up—it would feel too much like letting Agravaine win. "I _live_ to please, you know."

"Of course I _like_ it," Agravaine whispered, his touch fire on Merlin's spine, fingers wreathing his flesh in flame. "You look like _mine_."

* * *

The spell activated a week later.

Starlight spilled in bright silver streams through his glassless, uncovered bedroom window, leaving narrow bars of brilliant ivory along his floor when he felt the light little tug at his magic— _come here_ , but no human voice spoke it, no voice spoke it at all, he just—he just _felt_ it, from somewhere in the castle—

Merlin jolted up off the bed in one sharp lurch, and the wooden frame creaked and rasped in ardent protest, piercingly loud in the silence of the room. Everything was piercingly loud in the silence of the room—his own footsteps, his own hitching breath. He hadn't bothered to put on his nightclothes or even kick off his boots—it was too cold now at night to bother shedding his layers at all—so he didn't have to stop, and thank gods, because he wouldn't have anyway—he ripped open the door, and he threw himself down those stairs, and he _ran_.

This was the best shot he had at protecting Camelot, and he was not going to let it slip through his fingers.

He streaked soundlessly through the darkened castle, the hushed hallways and the dead-silent chambers, heart pounding against his ribs so hard it hurt—Agravaine had a head start, that much was a given, but if he could just _keep up_ —he glided past the patrols, knights and guards with their torches blazing like beacons and their armor clanking—he threw himself around corners and down staircases, through corridors and past alcoves and he didn't even know what else—he followed the magic blindly through the castle and out into the courtyard, his boots thumping on the cobblestone streets of the citadel, his breath coming in short, rattling gasps as he hit the Lower Town, and _there_ —

Merlin skidded to a stop.

 _There_ , Agravaine strode through the dark streets, straight-backed and bold and not even _trying_ to avoid notice, his purple traveling cloak flaring behind him in a great fan, his tall, proud figure a sharp sillehoutte in the starlight, standing as he was on the very edge of the labyrinthine city. The Darkling Woods. He was going into the Darkling Woods.

 _They all go to the Darkling Woods,_ Merlin thought wryly, _even when it's negative five hundred degrees out_. He kept to the shadows now, and he kept on.

 _His best shot at protecting Camelot._ He _would not_ let it go to waste.

* * *

Morgana lived in a hovel now. Apparently.

There was a slight _stick_ when Merlin tried to follow Agravaine through the magical wards—like he stepped in syrup, or molasses, or tree sap, and his legs didn't want to go with him the rest of the way, or like his jacket caught on the brambles and branches behind him, and hauled him back again—but a brief touch of his own power sent the whole thing crumbling at his feet, and he stepped easily over the boundary without a backward glance.

Agravaine bent at the waist, lifted his black-gloved fist, and knocked lightly on the little dilapidated door.

If this wasn't _Morgana_ , who'd murdered innocent citizens and tried to do the same to Arthur more times than he could count, Merlin might have felt sorry for her. Actually. Yeah. He _did_ feel sorry for her.

Even Morgana didn't deserve all that had happened to her.

She didn't deserve what he'd done to her.

The splintering door swung open on its hinges, and the second Agravaine disappeared inside, the door slammed shut again.

Merlin edged a little farther out of the trees, a little closer to the hovel—near enough to be heard, near enough to be seen, but he had to take this chance. Without Agravaine to lead the way, he might never even find this place again. He crouched beneath the nearest window, as wide open as his own, and listened, with the crown of his head pressed to the dirty sill.

"My Lady," Agravaine said, in his best bootlicker voice, his I-grovel-before-your-greatness voice—Merlin could practically _see_ him dropping into one of those sweeping, exaggerated bows. "It's been _far_ too long since I have had the pleasure of—"

"What news, Agravaine?" Merlin could hear the eye-roll in Morgana's voice. _She_ didn't seem to care much for Agravaine's bootlicking, either. "Have you brought it?"

 _It._ Something—something Morgana needed? Maybe something that would help her take over Camelot? Something that would make her magic stronger? Something that would force people to follow her, or bend to her will, or—?

"Of course," Agravaine said, easily, and Merlin could see the smile on his face, hear it in his voice, that aren't-I-clever twist to his lip, "of course. Anything for you, my Lady."

The soft, crinkling rustle of a velvet cloak sounded out through the open window—his cloak, then, Agravaine had hidden _it_ , whatever _it_ was, somewhere under his cloak—which meant that, whatever it was, it was small enough to fit beneath his clothes without any obvious lumps or bulges. Morgana, in the hovel, hidden from Merlin's sight, drew a sharp breath.

" _Oh,"_ she said, wild and exultant, and there was something so savage, so _vicious_ , in her triumph, that Merlin swallowed hard outside the window, and prayed to the Triple Goddess herself, there on the ground in the Darkling Woods, that whatever Morgana held in her hands at this moment, whatever Agravaine had given her, it wouldn't harm Camelot, it wouldn't harm a single soul in the kingdom he so loved, "oh, yes, this will change _everything_." Merlin could hear the smirk in his voice, and it made something in his stomach turn. "You have done well, Agravaine. _Camelot_ ," she spat the word from her mouth like a profanity, like a curse, "doesn't stand half a chance without its _precious protector_ , Emrys."

 _Emrys. Emrys. Emrys._ The name rolled around in Merlin's head, from side to side, back and forth, one dark and dusty corner to the next, and his heart seized up in his chest, valves and vessels clenching and constricting in a single, awful moment of raw and unconquerable terror. _Emrys_.

Agravaine was up to something. Agravaine had something up his sleeve. Agravaine couldn't be trusted. Agravaine had allied himself with _Morgana_ , of all people, and with her, he'd set about plotting something _horrible_ , something loathsome, and if it went through, everything would fall apart, and Morgana would make herself ruler of _Arthur's_ kingdom, seat herself on _Arthur's_ throne, put _Arthur's_ crown on her head—yes, Merlin knew all that, he'd known all of this since the beginning, but it hadn't—it hadn't really occurred to him, he hadn't stopped to think about it, he just _hadn't_ —not once, not ever—but it only made sense—it only made sense—if—

—if Agravaine knew about his magic—

— _if Agravaine knew about his magic_ —

—then Morgana knew about it, too.

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter was brought to you by the fact that I FELL DOWN THE FUCKING STAIRS in the final week of February, and the impact tore several muscles in my foot. The week after, I caught a _wicked_ strain of the flu, and it's taking me _forever_ to get back to one hundred percent, and pretty much the only good thing is I've had plenty of time for writing, since I really can't do much else. I've been on orders to rest since the last week of February, and I'm honestly going a little insane. **

**Anyway, while I wrote this chapter, I spent most of my time in an unending state of internal anguished screaming. Merlin is such a dumbass. But I would die for him.**


	7. Make Me So No One'll Ever Want Me Again

"Get the room with the heart-shaped bed,

Make something gross feel romantic,

Make me so no one will ever want me again,

Because when I sleep with faith,

I only find a corpse,

In my arms on awakening."

\- _Heart-Shaped Bed_ , Nicole Dollanganger

* * *

"Thank you, Arthur," Guinevere said.

She even smiled at him—soft, plump lips hitching up at the corners, and dusky cheeks, skin smooth as richest velvet, lifting a little, but Arthur knew her better than that by now.

Arthur knew her well enough to hear it, in her voice, that light little touch of exasperation in the gratitude, that tiny trifle of irritation, somewhere under her patient words, somewhere in her silvery voice, like a fast-flowing undercurrent, like sparkling ice over a churning river. Arthur knew her well enough to see it, the exhaustion and the sorrow in the smile she forced on her face, and even as the first itch of impatience dug at him, dug _into_ him, even with how many times he'd had this argument with her since the sunrise, even with how many times he'd said the words, over and over and over again, how many times he'd tried to get her to listen, tried to make her _see_ —

Even with that—even with _all_ of that—he couldn't be angry with her, he couldn't be, he just _couldn't_ be, not really, not here, not _now_ , with all her exhaustion, and sorrow and grief hiding behind her eyes, not with the cold and quiet _ache_ festering like a fatal wound inside her, something so swollen and so fevered, he did not even think Gaius could heal it.

 _I'm sorry,_ he thought, with a strange sort of pang in his chest, for the thousandth time, _I'm sorry for what my father did to you, to yours, I'm sorry my father tore your family apart, I'm sorry my father took yours from you, and I'm sorry you have to ride three days just to reach his grave because my father wouldn't lay him to rest in the citadel, wouldn't let anyone lay him to rest in the citadel, and I'm sorry that this, here, is the best I can do for you now, and I'm sorry I didn't do better by you and your father when I could have, when I should have, when it would have made a difference, when it would have mattered—_

"Thank you," Guinevere said, again, "really, this is—this is so absolutely _wonderful_ of you, and it is so kind of you to do this, but Elyan and I know the way. There's no need to make _more_ work for—"

"Guinevere." Arthur had to push the guilt down—if he let her keep going, she would just ramble herself breathless, and no one wanted that. "I'll _not_ have you wandering the wilderness with only one knight."

Guinevere drew herself up. "Elyan is one of the best—"

"Knights of the realm," Arthur finished for her. "I know." On any other day, he would have loved her all the more for her fierce loyalty and devotion to her brother. On any other day, he could have kissed her right now. "But Elyan is still only one man, Guinevere. And you know there's all manner of rogues on these routes. You _need_ more than just Elyan." He'd take her down there himself, come to that, he'd take her down there himself if he could, if the demands of the kingdom and the court and the people would permit it. He knew better than to believe a king could abandon his throne for a serving-girl.

Guinevere pursed her lips, and looked at the ground.

"And," Arthur put his hand under her chin, the beautiful brown skin warm under his gentle fingertips, " _Elyan_ needs more than just Elyan, too."

Guinevere's lips hitched hesitantly back up in a small smile. "The knights will be _bored_ ," she said.

Arthur rolled his eyes. _Guinevere._ Six years to the day her father died not a week away, and here she was, worrying about the knights, because of course she was. "They're knights, Guinevere," he told her. "This is their job."

"And Lord Agravaine—"

"Is _never_ too busy to map a safe route for you," Arthur finished, firmly. "No one in this kingdom is too busy for you when you need a service." He nodded. "I'll make sure of that."

A lovely little flush bloomed out across Guinevere's cheeks like a scarlet flower. "Arthur—"

"You don't have to do this _alone_ , Guinevere." And Arthur gave in, and kissed her before she could raise another protest.

Her lips, warm and soft and wonderful under his own, moved with him, merged with him, meshed with him and her small hands, so delicate even with all her years of toil, pressed into his chest, his shoulders, down the curve of his spine. Little fires sprung up on his skin under her touch, and his fingers tangled up in her thick curls until he didn't think he could get away if he wanted to.

When Guinevere finally pulled back, she pulled back slowly, lips lingering on his, her breath hot and damp against his own mouth.

"Thank you, Arthur," she whispered into his skin, and it sounded sincere this time.

* * *

Morgana knew.

The truth of it ripped through Merlin's head like a rusty blade, unavoidable, inevitable, incontrovertible, until it felt as if all the fragile bones in his aching skull had started to splinter, to shatter, under the jagged, driving edge of his own barbed and biting terror.

It settled over him like a mist, like a vapor, twisting and twining its way through his brain in its ruthless, razor-sharp coils, until it filled him up like smoke, like fire, burning unconquerably through his every thought, every breath, because Morgana _knew_ , Morgana _knew_ , _Morgana knew._

Morgana _knew_ about the magic. Morgana knew it _all_. Morgana knew—everything, everything, so much, too much, everything everything _everything Agravaine knew, and_ Agravaine knew so much, too much, _too much too much too much everything everything everything how could you have let him see how could you have been so careless so stupid so fucking stupid_ —

Morgana—Merlin dragged his thoughts back to her, _back back back go back to Morgana, think about Morgana_ , and how massively fucked-up was it, really, that _Morgana knows_ was still better, still easier to swallow, still something softer, than _Agravaine knows and he's going to keep doing this and he's never going to stop and I'm going to keep letting him, I'm never going to fight back like I should, I'm never going to tell him no like I should_ —

Morgana. _Think about Morgana Morgana Morgana Morgana—_

Morgana knew. Morgana knew everything—maybe not _everything_ everything, but everything important, everything that mattered, Merlin wasn't going to get hung up on the details _now,_ because Morgana _knew_ , and _that_ was what mattered right now.

Morgana knew. Secrets and lies and walking in shadows wasn't going to work, it wasn't going to save him, it wasn't going to save anyone, it wasn't something he could depend on, not anymore, not this time, because Morgana wouldn't let him hide this time, not now, not after this, she wouldn't let him lie, she wouldn't let him walk in secrets, in lies, in shadows, she'd drag him and his sins into the light if it was the last thing she ever did, even if it destroyed her in the doing, and Merlin—

Well. Couldn't say he didn't deserve it.

Merlin swallowed, hard, and scrubbed at his eyes again, stinging with exhaustion. How had he not seen? How had he not even thought about it? Not even _considered_ —?

It should have been the first thought in his head, the first thing on his mind, from the minute he'd found the maps in Agravaine's chambers, from the minute the final, missing piece to the strange and mysterious puzzle clicked into place, from the minute he'd said Morgana's name, he should have seen, he should have known, should have realized, should have figured it out—

 _If Agravaine knows about my magic_ —and it felt so simple to him, now, to put it into words this way— _if Agravaine knows about my magic, and he's in league with Morgana, then he's told her about it, about all of it, about everything, and I should have seen that, I should have figured out, I should have should have should have_ —

There was—there was _something_ , though, there was something, one single thing, so small, but it stuck in his head like syrup, like tar, and he couldn't get out, and it made his stomach turn in a hundred thousand ways he couldn't explain.

 _Emrys._

Morgana had called him _Emrys_.

Agravaine didn't know he was Emrys.

Agravaine _shouldn't_ know he was Emrys.

How _did_ Agravaine know he was Emrys? The man didn't have so much as an ounce of magic to him—Merlin would have felt it, would have sensed it, a long time ago, if he did, the way he had sensed it with Mordred, with Morgause, with Morgana—and anyway, even if Agravaine _did_ have magic—and a shiver of fear, _real_ fear, rippled down Merlin's spine at the thought, because oh, gods, _Agravaine_ with _magic_ and it shouldn't have scared him half so much as it did, and he _hated_ it—even if Agravaine did have magic, it wouldn't really matter so much, it wouldn't make a difference—it wasn't like everybody with magic in the whole world knew him at a glance. It wasn't like some sort of reflex thing for sorcerers, it was really only the old ones, the _ancient_ ones, and the powerful ones, and the creatures like Kilgharrah, and the druids—

Merlin's stomach clenched.

The burning throb of his own magic in his chest, that sharp and persistent pulse of power under his skin that had led him out to the woods last night, led him to Morgana, had sunk, had settled, back down to nearly nothing now that he'd followed it, but he could still feel it, a thin golden thread, twitching lightly with Agravaine's every word, every step, every breath, and Merlin wanted to tear through his chest, cut through flesh and blood and bone, and rip it out of him, every last tiny, radiant fiber, because _I don't want it anymore, I don't don't don't I want it out of me, I don't want to feel Agravaine anymore, I don't don't don't_ —

But—

—he _couldn't_.

This wasn't over, not yet, not even close, not anywhere near, and Merlin knew better than to lift the spell, even if every repulsive thread of Agravaine's existence slipped, slick like oil, over his insides and under his skin and through his muscles and across his bones and merging with his blood, and it made him sick, made his stomach wrench, made his insides writhe and warp, but he couldn't stop it, he couldn't lift the spell, he wouldn't lift the spell, not yet, because this wasn't over, not yet, not even close, not anywhere near, because Camelot wasn't safe, Camelot wasn't safe, Camelot wasn't safe, _this kingdom wasn't safe_ , not the castle, not the citadel, not the Lower Town, and Merlin could try his damndest but it wasn't going to be enough, it wasn't going to be enough, it wasn't wasn't wasn't—

" _Beswápan,"_ Merlin breathed, and he let the magic sit for a minute, in the air, arching gracefully over the house, a faint flicker of radiant gold, before he moved onto the next bit. _"Bregoweard."_ The power crackled and pulsed under his skin, irritated from overuse, but he pushed it away, pushed it down—don't be such a girl, Merlin—and kept going. _"Bordrand. Anhealdan_ _friþsum."_

It wasn't going to be enough.

If Morgana came marching through, when Morgana came marching through, a flick of her fingers, and these barriers and boundaries and defenses could crumble, _would_ crumble, and she'd hurt everyone, anyone, she didn't care, she didn't care, she'd hurt even if she didn't need to, she'd hurt just to hurt, and it wasn't going to be enough, this, here, it wasn't going to be enough when the time came, when Morgana attacked—and, after everything he had heard from under the window, he knew she was _going_ to attack, and she wasn't going to wait, and this wasn't going to be enough, what he was doing here, it just wasn't going to be enough, all this, all these barriers and defenses and shields and protections and precautions and _it wasn't going to be enough_ , but—

But it was going to _have_ to be.

Merlin circled around to the next house.

" _Beswápan."_ Let the magic sit a minute. Move on. _"Bregoweard."_ Let the magic sit a minute. Move on. _"Anhealdan—"_ The warm pulse of power in his chest flickered feebly, the final spark of a dying fire, and fell back again into cold, into dark. Merlin winced, and rubbed a hand over his heart. _"Anhealdan—"_

His hands were shaking as he lifted his arms, palms out, to complete the spell. A hot trickle of blood trailed from the corner of his mouth, the first little alarm bell— _stop stop stop, too much magic, that's too much magic_ —but he wiped it off on his jacket sleeve, and he pushed on. He had ignored the first little alarm bell before—and the second, and the third, and the fourth—and he could ignore it again. He'd be fine.

" _Anhealdan_ _friþsum."_

This time, it stuck.

Merlin moved onto the next house— _last house,_ he realized, with a sharp, fervent relief, _last house, this is the last house, I don't have to do anymore after this one_ —

" _Beswápan."_ He pushed forward too fast to let his magic feel the pain this time. _"Bregoweard—bordrand—"_ His breath hitched. He smothered a wince. _"Anhealdan friþsum."_ He rubbed at his heart again, and scrubbed away a fresh, sticky track of blood running down his chin. His hands were shaking again, and his legs, and he had to stop, had to sink down to his knees in the scrubby grass all around him, and let the shudders run their course, let the blood fall from his lips.

It seemed to take an age, but he finally pushed himself back to his feet, and made his way back, through the Lower Town and the citadel, and up to the distant spires of the proud castle. He stumbled sometimes, in the dark, over the cracks and nicks in the cobbled streets, thin boots slapping loudly on the split stones in the heavy silence. His skin prickled under his clothes at every gust of winter wind, every frigid rush, every frosty flurry, every icy blast, bursting through the town.

He took every shortcut he knew, every secret passage, every hidden corridor he had ever found, and he had found a _lot_ of them—all that sneaking was good for something, after all. He rounded the last corner, climbed the narrow stairway, and pushed the heavy door open with a soft creak of old wood. His fingers trembled on the rough, uneven surface, but everything smelled of herbs and spices and the dusty old books Gaius loved so much, and _things are okay, because I'm home,_ and it was a stupid stupid stupid thing to think, because things _weren't_ okay, things had never, ever been _less_ okay, and he pushed off the door, hard, and he turned and he—

—he stopped.

"What—?" Fury flared to life inside him, a fire burning, blazing so bright it must be shining out through his bones like the sun, like a beacon. "What are you _doing_ here?"

Agravaine got up from the chair— _Gaius'_ chair, the man had made himself at home in _Gaius'_ chair, and hadn't he already ruined enough, hadn't he already defiled enough in this castle, in this chamber, and if Merlin closed his eyes, he could still smell the smoke, still feel the flames as the scorching orange tongues licked his skin—

"Where _were_ you?"

Merlin pushed his eyes open. "What?"

"Where were you?" Agravaine said, again, and he stepped around a stack of books, around the cluttered worktable, around the overcrowded bookshelf, to get closer to Merlin, to get _to_ Merlin, and his black boots thudded heavily, deafening in the dark, in the quiet, and his cloak flared out behind him, sweeping along the stones in a soft and whispering swish.

Merlin reflexively stepped back. He hated it. "Sorry," he said, and he clenched his hands into fists so Agravaine wouldn't see him shake, "guess I missed the part when where I go became _any of your damn business_."

Agravaine lifted his brows. "Strange. I seem to recall _you_ asked me the same question not a week previously."

"Yeah, well, _I'm_ not off rubbing shoulders with Morgana in my spare time, am I?"

It was stupid. It was stupid, to say that, to say _anything_ , because it didn't really matter, he knew how this was going to end, he knew what Agravaine wanted, and he wouldn't fight back and he wouldn't say no, he would let it happen, he would just let it happen, and he would let it _keep happening_ , he would let Agravaine take from him, take and take and _take_ , over and over and over again, as much as he wanted, as long as he wanted, and Merlin wouldn't fight back, and he wouldn't say no, and he would let it happen, but he wouldn't, he _couldn't_ let it happen in anything like _silence_ , in anything like _submission._

He would do what he had to do. But he wouldn't do it _quietly_.

Agravaine flicked a little piece of lint off his sleeve. "That was not an _accusation_ , Merlin. Perhaps my memory's betrayed me, but I don't believe I said you had anything to do with the Lady Morgana."

He didn't deny his own ties to Morgana, though, he didn't deny it, he didn't even _try,_ he didn't defend himself, he didn't even try, and why _would_ he? What would be the _point_ of that?

Agravaine knew, didn't he, he had to know by now that he couldn't lie to Merlin, he couldn't fool Merlin, not the way he lied to Arthur, not the way he fooled Arthur, and something—a fierce sort of—of _pride_ seared through Merlin's chest, up the back of his throat, a fire burning under his skin, because at least Agravaine wasn't going to treat him like an _idiot_ , pat him on the head and pretend he didn't understand anything at all.

 _No, he just treats you like his little plaything, like his whore, and isn't that so much better—_

"No," Agravaine said quietly, "it wasn't an accusation. I think it would be more of a—ah—" he hesitated, "— _grievance_."

"I've got a _grievance_ , and it's called _you_ ," Merlin bit out.

The corner of Agravaine's mouth turned up. "Well, I don't like a very long wait, you see."

"Sorry I'm not constantly at your beck and call."

" _That_ ," Agravaine arched a brow, and stepped a little closer, his dark eyes raking slowly over Merlin's body, his tongue running across his own lip, " _would_ be something, now, wouldn't it?"

Heat flooded up Merlin's face in an unwelcome wave— _why is he looking at me, why is he looking at me, stop it, stop looking at me, what did I do, what did I do to make him look_ —and he grabbed, on instinct, for his scarf, coiling his fingers in the fraying cloth. "Are we going to your chambers, or _not_?"

"Must we?" Agravaine leaned down a little. "Forgive me, but I was under the impression you had a chamber of your own."

"No," Merlin said, on reflex, on _instinct_ , something automatic and uncontrolled, because _please, not there, haven't you ruined enough, haven't you defiled enough, don't ruin this, don't defile this,_ and this was stupid, this was ridiculous, this didn't make any sense, who cared about a little room with a bunch of boxes shoved in the corners and a rickety old bed pushed up against the wall, who cared about it, who cared about any of it, but Merlin _did_ , because _Gaius_ had given him that room.

Gaius had given him that room. And it was _his_. It was _his_ room. He'd never had a room before he'd come to Camelot. Not all to himself like that, at least, and it had been—it had been _special_ , it had been special to him, it had been _important_ to him, and he didn't want—he didn't want _this_ , in _there_.

Agravaine didn't listen to him, though. So it didn't really matter.

And Merlin let it happen.

He didn't fight back. He didn't say no.

He let it happen.

He let Agravaine lead him upstairs, let Agravaine press him into the wall and kiss him, warm wet lips all over him, his face, his neck, his cheekbones, his jaw—he let Agravaine push his jacket off his shoulders, let the man fumble, with broad fingers, for the knot in his scarf, he let Agravaine slide his tunic down, let him leave a trail of hard, hungry kisses all down his chest and stomach, and he let Agravaine shove him back onto the bed, and he let himself fall, and he didn't fight back, and he didn't say no.

"Noisy old thing, isn't it?" Agravaine murmured, into Merlin's open mouth, as the bed creaked under him, loud in the silence of the dark room, and he grabbed for Merlin's trousers, thumb running lightly along the thin, straight line of the waistband. He hadn't taken off a stitch of his own clothing yet, not even his heavy, dark cloak, not even his black boots. "If it were up to me," he whispered, breathlessly, into Merlin's ear, "if it were up to me, you'd have far better accommodations."

"So you could fuck me in comfort?"

Merlin didn't mean to say it. He didn't mean for the words to leave his mouth, he didn't mean—he didn't want—it just sort of burst out of him, and Agravaine's rough hands shoved shoved shoved at the line of his trousers until worn brown cloth pooled around his knees in a heap, and his stomach jolted.

Agravaine still hadn't even begun to undress.

"Well," Agravaine said, quietly, _"yes."_ He trailed a hand down Merlin's cheek. "You look _beautiful_ when you writhe naked on silk sheets, you know."

"Stop," Merlin said, and he didn't mean to say that, either, he didn't mean to, he didn't _want_ to, buthe didn't, he couldn't— _"Stop it."_ His breath hitched. _Please just make him stop._

"Can't you take a compliment, Merlin?"

Even in the dark, Merlin could see it, when Agravaine's mouth twitched, and he wanted to _fight back,_ to say no, to say _terrible_ things, to curse Agravaine until his breath ran out and Agravaine's ears bled, but greedy, grasping hands over his skin, and _you look beautiful when you writhe_ and would it make a difference, would anything he said make a difference, would anything he said make Agravaine _stop—_

"It _is_ a compliment, you know. You're beautiful. Absolutely _divine_." Agravaine pressed his lips to Merlin's chest again. "I don't know a man alive who can resist those lovely blue bed-me eyes of yours."

 _No._ Merlin didn't know if he ever even said it, he didn't know if he ever even said anything at all, if he said _no_ or _stop_ or _please,_ and he didn't even know, really, _why_ he should say no, _why_ he should say stop, _why_ he should say please, what difference was it going to make, what difference was it supposed to make, what was he fighting against, what was he fighting so hard against, what was he— _I didn't make Agravaine want me like this I didn't I didn't I didn't I didn't—I didn't mean to, I didn't try, and how could I have made Agravaine, how could I have made anyone, want me when I didn't mean to, when I didn't try_ — _?_

"Let me see," Agravaine pulled back a little, but he didn't lift his voice above a whisper—in the silence, he didn't need to, "let me see you," his fingers dragged, slowly, deliberately, over Merlin's cock, "pleasure yourself."

"What—?" Merlin's breath hooked in the back of his throat. No. Agravaine didn't want _that_ , Agravaine hadn't waited here so long for _that_ —?

"I trust you know the—ah— _fundamentals_?" Agravaine's dark brows rose a bit.

Merlin felt himself flush. At least the surge of color to his cheeks couldn't be seen in the dark. "Yes," he snapped, " _of course_ I know the—" he bit down, hard, on his bottom lip, to make himself shut up.

Agravaine laughed, low and deep and rumbling, in his throat, and his hand slid lightly up the bare inside of Merlin's thigh, broad fingers mere inches from his cock. "Yes. Yes, of course you do." He pressed a quick kiss to the inside of Merlin's thigh. "Have you ever," he whispered, against Merlin's skin, lips warm and wet on his naked legs, "have you ever pleasured yourself to me?"

"No,"Merlin said, vehemently, at once, even as the flush flared up again like a fire, because how could Agravaine even _suggest_ —?

"You _have_ ," Agravaine breathed, delightedly, his voice practically a purr. He rubbed his crotch lightly over Merlin's thighs.

"I _haven't_ ," Merlin said, through his teeth. He didn't know why it mattered so much, not really, because it wasn't going to make any difference at all, nothing he said was ever going to make any difference at all, Agravaine wouldn't believe him, no matter how he denied it, but it—but it _mattered_ , it mattered to him, because he knew, he knew the truth, even if he was the only one, and he may have given up his body, but he hadn't given up his mind, and that—that _mattered_ , that distinction mattered, it mattered to Merlin, in a million ways he couldn't really explain.

"Show me." Agravaine pressed his mouth to Merlin's ear. _"Show me."_

Merlin's heart thudded.

He had never done this where somebody could see him. Where somebody could hear him. Where somebody could _watch him_. He had never done this where somebody could see him, where somebody could hear him, where somebody could watch him, and—something inside him, in the pit of his stomach, gave a tiny, uncomfortable little twist— _Agravaine will see me, Agravaine will hear me, Agravaine will watch me, like it's a performance, like it's a show, and it's not, it's not, I don't want it to be, don't make me do this, don't make me do this, make him change his mind, make him change his mind, don't make me—_

He dropped his hand down between his legs. His fingers were shaking.

His heart pounded, painfully hard, in his chest.

He had never done this where somebody could see.

He wrapped his fingers, slowly, around his own cock, hot and already a little hard at the first touch, and he shut his eyes. _Just get it over with, just get it over with, just get it over with_ —he set the fastest rhythm he could manage, rocking a little, back and forth, on the bed as he moved, and the rough pressure of it pushed him, hard, into the first rolling wave of pleasure.

" _Fuck,"_ he said, hard as he tried not to, his voice a breathy gasp, his hands shaking as the heat started to sweep through him.

"—oh, yes, just like that, Merlin, just like that—"

That tiny little twist in Merlin's stomach just got so much tighter— _like it's a performance, like it's a show, like there's something to see, but there's not, there's not, there's nothing here for him to see, there's nothing here I want him to see, make him stop looking at me, gods, please, don't let him look at me anymore—_ another surge rocked through Merlin's body, flooded him like a river, flooded him like the sea, and _if I can just get it over with_ —

Downstairs, the heavy door creaked open.

Merlin froze, on the bed, with the blankets scraping at his bare skin, one hand wrapped around his cock, his blood pounding like a drum in his ears, his heart a frantic, frenzied pulse in his chest. He opened his eyes.

Agravaine had frozen, too. His dark eyes had gone wide, enormous black pools too big for his lined face, and he lifted his head by the barest fraction, and looked over his shoulder at the thin door to the little bedchamber.

"Merlin?"

Even through the stone walls standing solidly between them, Merlin could hear it, could make it out, even through the wood of the closed door, and even now, he knew the way his own name sounded in Gwaine's boisterous, inelegant voice, he knew the heavy thump of Gwaine's boots on the ground down below, the clank of his armor and the swish of his cloak, Merlin knew, Merlin _knew_ , and for scarcely a second, for barely half a heartbeat, he couldn't help but to think how Agravaine couldn't do anything in front of Gwaine, could he, Agravaine couldn't do _anything_ in front of Gwaine, anything at all, this had to stay a secret, this had to stay between them, and—hope flickered to life in Merlin's chest, like the sputtering flame of a midnight candle, because maybe he'd stop now, maybe he'd leave, maybe Agravaine would get up and leave, maybe if Merlin made a noise, maybe if Merlin got Gwaine's attention, it would make Agravaine leave, it would make him go, because Agravaine would _have_ to stop, if Gwaine were here, Agravaine would have to stop then, he would _have_ to, he wouldn't have a _choice_ , he would have to stop, he would have to leave, he would have to leave Merlin _alone_ , he would _have_ to stop, he wouldn't have a choice, not if Gwaine came up here, not if Gwaine found them here, not if Gwaine walked in, not if Gwaine saw _—_

The twist in Merlin's stomach wasn't tiny anymore.

If—if Gwaine saw— _if Gwaine saw_ —

Even if he could get his clothes back on before Gwaine got up here, even if he could cover himself back up again, Agravaine would still _be here_ , in his _bedroom_ , and Gwaine would wonder about that, there was no way he wouldn't wonder about that, he would ask about that, he was never the type to keep his questions to himself even when he really, really should, and if he asked, Merlin wouldn't have anything to say, no more little white lies, no more ways to water it down, or pretty it up, and—

—and no one could ever know, ever, about this, about Agravaine, about Merlin, about tonight, about all the nights that had come before, about all the nights that would come after, no one could know, because—

— _because no one can know about my magic,_ Merlin told himself, again and again and again, _no one can ever know about my magic,_ but—

—but it was bigger than that.

It was bigger than that now.

It was worse than that.

When Agravaine had gone inside Merlin, when he had—had crawled and crept, like something—something not human, when he had crawled and crept his way inside Merlin's body, inside Merlin, when Agravaine had gone inside, he had—he had taken something, and Merlin had thought, that night, that first night, that first time, he had thought, _I'm empty now, and I'll be empty like this forever, Agravaine hollowed me out to make room for himself here, Agravaine hollowed me out so there would always be a space for him to come back to, for him to fill up again—_

But that was _wrong_ , wasn't it, that was _wrong_ , because Agravaine hadn't—hadn't taken from Merlin, he hadn't taken from Merlin and left him empty, left him hollow, because there was something too simple, too neat, about that, wasn't there?

He hadn't emptied Merlin out so he could come back, hadn't hollowed Merlin so he could return. He had taken, and taken, and _taken_ , until Merlin could have shouted, could have screamed, and his whole body would have echoed it back, but he had filled Merlin back up again.

He had filled Merlin, inch by inch and ounce by ounce, had filled him with terrible things, with _rotten_ things, with waste, with filth, with garbage, with _trash,_ with decaying, dead things, with horrible things, with putrid things, with awful, with bad, with _vile_ —Agravaine had—had emptied him, had hollowed him, and then filled him back up again with all the things no one wanted to look at, all the things no one wanted to see, all the—the bad, the ugly, the wrong, and it had all made homes inside his hollow bones, shards and shrapnel had blended in with his blood, and a thousand evil things nested inside him now, and Agravaine had filled him up with it, Agravaine had left it all there, all the _bad_ , all the ugly, all the _wrong_ , all the things no one wanted to look at, all the things no one wanted to see.

And even if Agravaine stopped now, even if he stopped right now, even if he walked away, if he walked out of this room and out of Merlin's life and never, ever touched him again, it wouldn't make a difference, it wouldn't change anything, it wouldn't take the bad and the ugly and the wrong out of him, it wouldn't take away the dead and decay, it wouldn't wash him clean, it wouldn't return him to what he had been, and he wasn't empty, he wasn't hollow, he was _rotting_ , from the inside out, caving in and in and in on himself, a little farther every day, warping and withering into nothing, into all the things no one wanted to look at, all the things no one wanted to see, and if Gwaine came up here, if Gwaine found them here, if Gwaine walked in, if Gwaine saw—

"Merlin?" Gwaine called, again, a little louder this time, a little higher. "Merlin?"

And Merlin shut his eyes, and shut his mouth, because _rotten rotten rotten Agravaine's made me rotten and maybe I've always been rotten, always, forever, why else would I be like this, why else would I be the way I am, why else would everyone I ever touch always die, or get hurt—_

The door creaked shut again.

There was silence.

Gwaine had gone.

* * *

 **Notes: All right, so, originally, I had a lot more to this chapter - and I mean, a _lot_ more, I honestly don't know how I thought I could condense it into one, even if I'd made it a monster chapter, like chapter 4 - but in the end, I slowly whittled it down to just this. Not a lot really happens here, but this chapter, and the next - of which I've already written a lot, as the events in it were supposed to be in _this_ one - mark the most major turning point in the story, the most major turning point in Arthur and Merlin's character arcs, and I really wanted to emphasize that. I'm so sorry about all the unnecessary internal monologue, there was really absolutely no need for quite _that_ much, but I really wanted to make sure everyone knows what Merlin's feeling right about now, as his emotional state here is pretty important to me.**

 **Thank you guys so much for all your lovely and kind and encouraging comments on this fic! You're all so amazing and wonderful, I can't even believe the response I've received on this piece!**


	8. Who Would Ever Want to Be King?

"Revolutionaries wait,

For my head on a silver plate,

Just a puppet on a lonely string,

Oh, who would ever want to be king?"

\- _Viva la Vida_ , Coldplay

* * *

Arthur woke up already on his feet, with his sword in his hand and his bed hangings ripped back and his heart crashing around inside his chest and his dreams still burning like fire before his eyes. _Again._

 _Stupid,_ he thought, once the last, lingering threads of his broken and restless sleep had finally gone, finally fallen from off the edges of his exhausted mind, faded away into nothing, and he could finally think again, could finally slow down, could finally breathe again— _stupid, this is so stupid, I'm being stupid, I'm just being stupid, why am I so stupid, why am I so—_

The harsh clang of his own blade, as it tumbled from his slack fingers and struck the floor at his feet, sent another sharp jolt to his stomach—he reflexively closed one shaking hand up in a fist, so tight his knuckles went white and the blue veins bulged under his skin, but _just my sword, it's just my sword, it's just my damned sword, God, stupid, this is so stupid, I'm being stupid, why am I so stupid, why am I so—?_

Arthur dropped back to the edge of the bed, and rubbed, halfheartedly, at his temples, but he knew better than to believe he could banish the ache already splitting into his skull like the blunt blade of an old and ineffective axe. He dragged in a breath, face still hidden in his hands, and it—it helped, a little—the dark, the quiet, behind his own open palms, it helped a little, it eased the pounding pressure in his throbbing head, and it slowed the rapid rhythm of his racing heart, relaxed the tight knot of rigid tension in his chest, soothed the shudders still rolling every now and then through his tired body. _I've got no reason to panic,_ he told himself, over and over again, until he could make himself believe it, _don't be stupid, I've got no reason to panic, I've got no reason to panic, just a dream, just a silly dream, I've got no reason to—_

Arthur's breath caught in his chest, in the back of his throat, and he had to push himself up off the bed on the heels of his hands and walk three times round the whole room before he could actually breathe again. He went to the wardrobe then—his fingers still trembled when he reached for his red tunic, but _I'm going to the Lower Town,_ he told himself, firmly, _and I'm going to go and see Guinevere, and Elyan, and I'm going to ensure they've got everything they need for their journey, I'm going to the Lower Town and I'm going to see Guinevere, I'm going to help Guinevere, like I told her I would, like I promised her I would,_ and the thought of her gentle face, of her smile like sunlight and her eyes like stars, was good enough to get him to breathe again. _No reason to panic. I've got no reason to panic._

And then the door banged open, so hard it hit the wall behind, and Sir Gwaine charged in, full armor and all, and bellowed, like he wanted the whole kingdom to hear it, "I need a word with you!"

Arthur's breath did another funny hitch at the back of his throat at the loud noise, and he silently cursed Gwaine straight to hell. "It's going to have to wait."

" _No,"_ Gwaine said, furiously, "it's _not_ 'going to have to wait', we're going to talk _now_."

Arthur rubbed at his temples again. It didn't help. "Sir Gwaine, I'm afraid I have a prior obligation—"

"Bullshit," Gwaine said. He put a hand on the sword hanging at his hip. "Is Merlin here?"

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me," Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "You don't think this could have _waited_?"

" _Is Merlin here?"_ Gwaine repeated, with narrowed eyes, and a sharp edge of ice to his voice.

Arthur looked, pointedly, around the spacious and sunlit and, decidedly, Merlin-free chamber. "Unless he's gone and hidden himself in the wardrobe, I wouldn't say so, no."

"You mean, you haven't seen him this morning?" Gwaine started to pace the room like a feral cat in a cage. His armor clanked with every step. "At all?"

"No." Arthur ran a hand down the side of his face, dry skin stretching under his fingers. "But that doesn't mean anything. He's never on time, Gwaine, I wouldn't worry about it." He turned back to the wardrobe, grabbed a fresh pair of breeches off the shelf, and shut the doors with a soft click.

"He didn't come home last night," Gwaine said quietly.

Arthur frowned. "Merlin?" He turned on his heel to look round at Gwaine again.

"Yeah." Gwaine's mouth twisted. "Not like him, is it?" He'd reached the far wall by now and here he turned, sharply, in a jangle of armor and a swirl of scarlet cloak, to pound his path back to the door.

Arthur leaned back against the wardrobe, the wood cool and firm on the bare skin of his back. "No," he admitted. "It's not." God knew the idiot took every opportunity he had to laze about in his bed as long as he could—but it still didn't mean Gwaine had any right to burst into his chambers barely after sunrise, and start yelling at the top of his voice about it.

"Thing is," Gwaine shook his head, hard, his tangled dark hair dragging down his unshaven cheek, "I don't think he's really _been_ home in—" he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, "—a while. Days. At least."

"Well," Arthur wrinkled his brow, "he's—he's been _here_. He's attended me—"

"Gaius' desk has got dust," Gwaine cut him off, "and that hearth was cold as ice. Woodbox was empty as the Monday morning tavern, and it's freeze-your-cock-off degrees outside these days, Princess, why wouldn't he have lit himself a fire?"

Arthur had to concede the point there. Everyone knew Merlin was an absolute petticoat when it came to the cold—could catch a sniffle at the drop of a hat, and usually spent the whole winter wrapped in every last flimsy little layer he owned, like it wasn't his own idiot fault he didn't have enough meat on his bones to stave off the chill. Couldn't pay the man enough to forego a fire.

But that was no reason to let Gwaine get himself riled up about all of this. There was no reason to think Merlin was anything other than perfectly all right.

"So he's not had time to replenish the woodbox," Arthur said, calmly, and stepped behind the dressing screen. "Hardly unusual around this time of year, Gwaine. Yule's not far, and we need everyone to pitch in a little extra." He wrenched off the trousers he'd slept in, and tossed them over top of the screen.

"Look, there's something wrong with him!" There was a thump somewhere beyond the dressing screen. Probably Gwaine had knocked something over.

"What, just because he can't be bothered to refill the woodbox?" Arthur pulled on the clean pair of breeches, and tried not to ignore the acid bubbling up and burning in the pit of his stomach. So maybe Gwaine had a point. Maybe Merlin _had_ been nattering on a lot less than usual lately. Maybe he _had_ gone tense and quiet and distant lately. Maybe there was something strange and strained in his smile, maybe Gwaine was right, maybe there was something wrong with him, and maybe it stared Arthur in the face every damned day, but—

— _you've known Morgana since you were a child—_

—but no matter how Arthur tried, how he pushed at the words, plucked at them, pulled at them, stretched them out to their fullest, he couldn't push or pluck or pull them out of his mind, couldn't stretch them clean out of his skull, and he could still feel them, sitting and seething and festering, like old and infected wounds in darkest, smallest corners of his own sick and sleepless mind, burning and blazing at the back of his exhausted brain, building homes inside his head, sticking, like syrup, like tar, to the insides of his skull, and he couldn't speak anymore, couldn't fill the silence anymore, couldn't find it in himself to do anything, to say anything, just let that strange and strained something in Merlin's smile slip past him, just let the tense and quiet and distance get bigger and bigger and _bigger_ and—

"It's not about the _woodbox_ ," Gwaine snapped. "He's _not_ himself. Looks like he hasn't slept in ages, and if he's had a full meal in the last week, I'll eat my own sword." He tapped at the hilt of his weapon with the tips of his fingers for emphasis. "He looks about ready to collapse."

"And what do you expect _me_ to do about it?" Arthur tugged his tunic on over his head, and stepped out from behind the dressing screen. "If he's too much of an idiot to take care of himself, I hardly think I can _make_ him—"

"I don't want you to make him do anything, Princess, that's not the point—"

"Well, whatever you want, you're going to have to come out and say it, because I don't have the time—"

"Listen, Princess, I—" Gwaine raked a hand roughly through his hair, "—Arthur—"

Arthur raised his eyebrows. His name? Now that was new, at least coming from Gwaine.

"—someone's _hurting_ him."

"Hurting him?" Arthur rolled the words around inside his mouth, inside his mind, and he felt his stomach tense up. _Merlin?_ _Hurt?_ "Why would you—?" He leaned back against the front of the dressing screen. "What's given you that idea?"

"You're telling me you haven't noticed?"

"Noticed what?" Arthur demanded. "I'm running a kingdom, I have far better things to do than pay attention to my _servant_ ," he added, sharply, when Gwaine stared at him in disbelief.

"Fine, all right, then, since I've got to spell it out for you," Gwaine said, tightly, "he's bruised. All to hell, Arthur, like you wouldn't believe. All over his wrists, and Christ, there are _handprints_ —"

"Handprints?" Arthur echoed uncomfortably. No, no, not possible, he'd have noticed if his own servant came bumbling into work with bruises and handprints on his wrists, he'd have noticed if someone had grabbed Merlin, he'd have noticed if someone had hurt him, he'd have noticed it, he'd have seen, but his stomach still did that tense-up thing again when he thought about it. He would have noticed it.

But—but if he _hadn't_ —

"—and I don't think that burn on his face was an _accident_ —"

He would have noticed if his own servant came bumbling into work with a burn on his face, but something in Arthur's chest clenched tight like a fist, like a vise, and his breath hooked in the back of his throat. He would have noticed burns, and bruises and handprints, he would have noticed, he would have seen, he would have taken care of it,but if—if what Gwaine said was true—if there was even a shadow of a chance that Merlin might—that he might be—that someone might have—

"—he's skittish as a spooked horse these days," Gwaine barreled on, "doesn't even like me to touch him anymore—" he'd taken up the pacing again, one hand still tangled in his own dark, unkempt hair, "—and, Christ, Arthur, he's tense as a taut bowstring, keeps lookin' 'round everywhere he goes like he thinks he'll get _beaten_ if he lets down his guard."

"I'm—I'm sure Merlin's all right," Arthur said, weakly, but he burned even as he spoke the words, because if Gwaine was right, if his story was true, if Merlin was getting hurt, if anyone was laying a hand on him, if anyone had messed with so much as a hair on his idiot head, if somebody had really hurt him, if somebody had really _beaten_ him—Merlin, bloodied and battered and frightened and defenseless, while an unseen assailant held his wrists so hard he bruised and burned his face and beat him while he couldn't fight back, flashed through Arthur's mind, and that horrible tight feeling inside him got even tighter.

"No," Gwaine jerked up short, and spun to face Arthur, "no, he's _not_. Iknow what I'm seeing, and I don't like it, and if you don't believe me, I'll—"

The door banged open again, crashing back into the wall behind with a tremendous blast, and Lord Agravaine walked inside.

"Sire," he bowed low, but he didn't slow down, he didn't break stride, black cloak flaring out at his back in a whirl of thick, dark cloth, "I apologize profusely for such an indecorous intrusion at this early hour, but I'm afraid I cannot—" He stopped mid-sentence, mid-step, even, and he flicked his gaze uncertainly from Arthur to Gwaine and back again. "Forgive me," he took half a step back, "am I interrupting something?"

" _Yes."_ Gwaine's dark brows dipped down into a thunderous scowl.

"No," Arthur said, quickly, "no, not at all, Uncle." He couldn't turn his uncle away over Merlin. He couldn't ignore the Lord Agravaine for a servant. Couldn't put someone like Merlin over someone like Agravaine. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and it always would be, but it was the way it had to be. Gwaine could understand that. Merlin could understand that.

"Hang on, Princess," Gwaine snapped out, and took a step forward, "you can't just—"

"Please allow me to hear the Lord Agravaine out, Sir Gwaine," Arthur held up a hand to shut Gwaine up, and pushed down that horrible tight, tense feeling in the bottom of his stomach again—if Gwaine was really onto something, and Merlin really was in trouble—

— _he could be getting hurt right now—_

Gwaine glared at Agravaine.

Agravaine did not seem terribly bothered by this. "My Lord," he swept himself up to his full height at once, and clasped his black-gloved hands behind his back, "your presence is urgently required in the council room. Please come with all due haste, Sire, I'm afraid there has been a truly terrible occurrence." Here, Agravaine hesitated, however briefly, as if the words to come were too horrendous to leave his lips, and Arthur's stomach started to tense up again. "My Lord, last night, a sorcerer was spotted in the Lower Town."

* * *

Merlin had started shaking again. In the waxy, cold light of new dawn, he could see it, could see his own hands, pale and empty and open, trembling against the rough, dark burlap of his pillow, trembling like little white birds, like leaves on a cold night in the Darkling Woods, and _isn't it funny,_ he thought, but in a very strange and distant and detached sort of way, _isn't it funny, I can see it, I can see my hands are shaking, I can see the shudders jolting through my palms, I can see the short, sharp tremors, I can see the little lurches and jerks and spasms but I can't feel them very much at all, isn't that funny?_

His fingers looked very white.

It was as if the sun was trying to wash him away. To bleach him to white, to turn him to grey, the sun was trying to take all the color out of him, and wasn't that odd, wasn't that funny?

 _Maybe I have gone to sleep,_ he thought, in that strange and distant and detached sort of way again, _maybe I have gone to sleep, and maybe it was all a dream. Maybe this is all a dream._

This _felt_ like a dream now that he thought about it—his head felt the way it did in his dreams, very heavy, and far too big for the rest of him, like someone had gone and stuffed his skull with thick, fluffy cotton, or wool blankets, maybe, like the sort Arthur liked to sleep with in the winter, and it felt like maybe he was under water, under an awful lot of water— _maybe I'm under the lake, maybe I'm with Freya,_ and then he could see her face when he closed his eyes and he couldn't breathe and his chest ached and he thought he'd die with the pain of it even when he knew he had said his goodbyes to her a long time ago.

He was under the water, and he had a thousand miles to go before he reached the surface, and the whole world around him wanted to drag him back down into the dark.

He tried to sit up.

It took him a long time—or maybe he was just imagining it, maybe it was all a dream, maybe he was making everything up, inside his own mind, but that was the way it felt to him, like he struggled for hours, for ages, forever and ever and ever, until he finally leaned up on jerking, shuddering arms, and stayed there.

 _It was all a dream,_ he thought, again, and he felt better, then—the awful, aching pressure in his chest didn't weigh so heavy on him anymore. _It was all a dream. Last night was all a dream. I made it up inside my mind. But it didn't really happen. Nothing happened. Nothing ever really happened. It was all a dream. It was all only a dream._

His torn, patched trousers lay in a mud-brown heap at the bottom of the bed, the thin cloth tangled up around his bare, pale legs.

His breath hitched.

 _I dreamt it,_ he told himself, again, _I dreamt it, I dreamt it all, it didn't really happen, it was all a dream._

The soft, white insides of his thighs had stains. Long, sticky trails of fluid— _of filth_ , and sour bile burned hot as fire at the back of his throat—streaked in thin lines along his clammy skin.

 _It was all a dream,_ he said, over and over and over again in his own mind, like a song stuck in his head, like a spell he couldn't forget, like a story, but he didn't know the end, _it was all a dream, last night was a dream, I made it up, I made it up, and it's all right because it didn't happen and I made it up and it was all only ever a dream,_ but he could feel the brittle, flaky crust under his fingers when he let himself touch his legs, and—

— _can't you take a compliment, Merlin?—_

His stomach clenched like a vise, like a fist, so sharp and tight and it _hurt_ , and he had to press a trembling hand to his mouth, fingers shaking on his own lips, just to stop the sick from spilling out—

— _you look beautiful when you writhe naked on silk sheets—_

— _a dream,_ he howled in his own head, over the frantic, frenzied hammer of his own heart, _a dream, it was a dream, it was all a dream, it was only ever a dream_ —

— _you're beautiful, absolutely divine_ —

— _it didn't happen,_ like a song stuck in his head, like a spell he couldn't forget, _it didn't happen_ —

— _oh, yes, just like that, Merlin, just like that_ —

—like a story, but he didn't know the end—

Merlin lurched off the edge of the bed. He snatched for his trousers in a pool at his feet, and he wrenched them up to his waist, and cinched the string as tight as it could go. The rough cloth still sagged down the slope of his narrow hips, and thick violet fingerprints glared furiously back at him just above the thin waistband, the smear of purple startlingly vivid against the smooth white of his skin.

— _you look like mine_ —

Merlin dragged in a breath, and dropped his hands back to his sides. Little tremors still spiraled through his fingers every few seconds.

He dressed—tunic, belt, jacket, boots, scarf, he had to run through the list a full three times in his mind before he realized he had gotten everything—and he went down the stairs. He could still feel last night on his legs, and the homespun cloth on the insides of his ragged trousers rubbed painfully at the mess. It would be all over him, all day, until he finally undressed again, and to think of it sent a trail of revulsion skittering down his spine, clawing up the back of his burning throat.

Soap and water would never wash him clean again.

* * *

 _Something's wrong._

Merlin knew—from the second he slipped into Arthur's bedchamber, breakfast tray balanced precariously in the crook of his left arm, and the low, furious voices fell on his ears, heavy as hammers, he _knew_ , and his stomach pulled almost painfully tight with the tension of it—Arthur had that same strained, pinched look on his pale, exhausted face that he got when he thought of Morgana, when he didn't think he'd made the right decision, or when he didn't think he made a good king, or when he didn't think he'd done enough to protect his people, and over on the far side of the room, Gwaine paced from the bed to the dressing screen to the wall and back again, like some wild, restless animal, and over by the window, Agravaine—

Merlin felt himself pull up to a sharp stop—felt the sudden stall in his steps, the stumbling falter to his feet, and the ground tilted violently beneath his boots, until he thought he'd fall— _can't you take a compliment, Merlin_ —he ground his teeth together until his jaw ached, and he put Arthur's breakfast down on the table with a light little thump, quick before he could drop it.

"—the hell of it," Gwaine said, impatiently, and jerked his head to the side to get the dark, shaggy hair out of his eyes. "How do we _know_ —?"

"It's nonsense you talk, Sir Gwaine," Arthur said sharply, blue eyes glistening bright with fury, "and well you know it. When has a sorcerer ever sought to do anything but bring hurt and harm to the innocent?"

The ground did that tilting-under-Merlin's-boots thing again, and he grabbed for the edge of Arthur's table to stay on his feet. _Sorcerer?_ His stomach pulled even tighter. _Why—why are they talking about sorcerers, what's happened, is it a sorcerer, is there a sorcerer, has Arthur found a sorcerer, has Arthur killed a—? Has he been attacked by a—?_

"What's—what's going on?" Merlin forced the words through dry lips, and flicked his gaze to Arthur first to find his answer.

Arthur stared back at him for a second too long—Merlin thought he seemed to be looking for something, searching, hunting, almost, but then he threw his shoulders back, and he stood up perfectly straight and he turned back to Agravaine, and the second was over, and Merlin supposed he must have imagined it. Made it up inside his own mind.

"Thank you for bringing me this news, Lord Agravaine," Arthur said, in a very tight, very formal sort of voice, and it was as if Merlin hadn't said a word. "If you and Sir Gwaine could proceed to the council room," he tipped his head toward the door, "I will join you both in ten minutes' time."

To Merlin's surprise, it was Gwaine who left first, with a little jerk of the chin in Arthur's direction as he headed out the door, and Agravaine who lingered.

"My Lord," he protested, "surely this happenstance takes _all_ precedence, does it not? You cannot ignore—you must focus on the safety of the people—"

"Lord Agravaine, your concern for Camelot is truly admirable," Arthur said, except there was the barest edge of steel in his voice now, and Merlin had never, ever heard Arthur speak to Agravaine, of all people, that way—as far as Arthur was concerned, his uncle could do no wrong. "But I'm afraid I have another responsibility I must attend to, and I have already left it far too long."

Agravaine fumbled, for a moment or two, his thin lips parting, his mouth opening up and closing back again every few moments—his dark eyes snapped to Merlin, and his jaw tightened. His heavy black brows dipped low in a scowl.

"Very well, Sire. It shall be as you wish." Agravaine swept down low in a bow so exaggerated, it was nearly derisive—Merlin felt his own hands close up in fists at the sight of it—and, in a whirl of thick black cloak, turned abruptly on his heel, and strode, straight-backed, out the door. It shut back behind him with a sharp _snap_.

The instant his uncle had gone, Arthur sat himself down, heavily, on the edge of his unmade bed, pushing the rumpled, snow-white sheets out of his way with the back of one hand. He ran shaking fingers lightly down the side of his tired face. "There's a sorcerer on the loose in Camelot," he said, very softly, but in the silence, it seemed very loud.

"Sorcerer?" Merlin's heart thudded, painfully hard, in his chest, at the word, and he skimmed the tip of his tongue lightly over his own cracked lips. "What—what do you mean, ' _sorcerer_ '?"

"I mean _sorcerer_ ," Arthur said impatiently. "What, are there supposed to be different sorts of them or something?" He leaned down, and dug around underneath the bed for his boots. "Eyewitnesses say he tried to lay some kind of curse over the Lower Town. That's all anyone knows." An exhausted sigh slipped through his lips.

 _Lower Town?_ Merlin's mouth went dry as the first cold trickle of suspicion crawled down his spine. Last night—in the Lower Town— _he_ had—but no, that was—that was mad, wasn't it? Completely and utterly mad. He had been careful enough. Hadn't he? Yes. He had. Of course he had. Careful. That was what he was. He was good at careful. Even if Gaius would disagree.

"—thankfully, the magic has yet to manifest itself in any visible way—"

Arthur's voice dragged on and on and on, and Merlin knew he needed to listen, he knew he needed to hear, it could help if he knew, if he knew how much the council knew, if he knew how much Arthur knew, it could help, but—but if someone had seen him—if someone had seen his _face_ —if anyone had gotten even half a look at him, in the light of the lanterns flickering on either side of the narrow, cobbled streets, if the fire had lit him up even for a moment, if anybody had—if anybody had seen—

"—and many citizens have sought refuge in taverns and inns within the citadel walls to ensure the investigations of the incident can proceed with all due haste—"

—no one could have seen, no one could have seen, it had been far too dark, the odds were just insurmountable—

"—unfortunate Gaius could not be here—we could use his expertise—"

— _but if anyone had,_ and something cold and heavy settled deep in the pit of Merlin's stomach, to think of it—

"—hardly a reassurance, when you really—"

" _Arthur,"_ Merlin said, sharply, as much to shut Arthur up as to pull himself back from the world of what-if and could-have, to pull himself back together before he could even begin to fall apart, "what else have the witnesses said?"

"I don't know." Arthur scowled. "Lord Agravaine tells me he has gathered them together in the council room, to give me their testimony when I arrive. Let us hope their accounts will prove useful to us."

 _Let us hope they won't,_ but Merlin bit his tongue, and forced a nod.

Arthur clambered back off the bed—the heels of his thick boots thumped lightly on the ground—and brushed off his breeches with the flat of his hand. "Merlin," he said, quietly, "Guinevere and Elyan stayed in the Lower Town last night."

"— _oh."_ It was barely a word, barely even a breath, come to that, and Merlin had to ball his hands back up in fists just to stop that damned shaking starting up again. _If I could just tell him, if I could just explain it to him, if I could just—_

"See to them," Arthur said, so short and sharp he sounded as if he might shatter. "Go to the Lower Town, and see to them. Make sure they're all right. Inform Elyan of the council meeting, if he's—" Arthur's eyes squeezed shut for a second or two, "—if he's still fit to attend."

 _He will be,_ Merlin thought, with a desperate pang of his pounding heart, _he will be, Arthur, if I could just tell you, if I could just make you see, if I could just tell you it was me—_

"And then you will stay and assist Guinevere in any way possible. She and Elyan intend to visit their father before the week is out, and I've no doubt they'll need aid to prepare for the journey in such short time."

"Yes," Merlin said, "yes, of course." _If I could just tell him, if I could just show him he has no reason to worry—_

"I intended to do so myself, but—" Arthur stopped, for a long moment, "—but plans have changed."

"Nothing's happened to them," Merlin blurted out, almost before Arthur had finished speaking, because he couldn't stop himself, he couldn't help himself, he could not stand to see Arthur so miserable, so afraid, "nothing's happened, Arthur, they're going to be all right."

Arthur pressed his lips together. "Thank you, Merlin. That will be all." He stopped just long enough to get his crown from off its stand as he headed for the door, and he jammed the circlet clumsily on his head, as he marched from the room.

Merlin hesitated, in the open entryway, half in and half out of the bedchamber, but—

—but Gwen and Elyan weren't really in any danger at all, even if Arthur didn't know that, even if Arthur couldn't know that, and Merlin—

—Merlin stepped out into the corridor and followed after Arthur.

He had to know what the witnesses knew, what the council knew, what Agravaine knew, what Arthur-

What Arthur was about to know.

* * *

 **Notes: *insert that gif from _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_ where that guy flicks the match in the dark and goes, "All right, who's not dead? Sound off."* **

**But seriously there is absolutely no valid reason why this chapter took me from April to June? I didn't even realize how long it had been until I checked the "last updated" slot at the bottom. honest to God lads. I'm Shook. But I'm real pumped to be back on this fic again! This was technically supposed to be the Big Chapter - the one where it all happens, if you will, but I didn't get too far in before I realized I was just trying to say too much with this one, and no matter how long I kept at it, this one was going to turn out sloppy if I didn't cut it down a bit. So! I split it up into two, and the NEXT chapter will be the one where it all happens, and y'all can hold me to that! Y'all can quote me on that! Y'all reserve the right to quote me on that!**

 **Also, fun fact here, I used Viva la Vida specifically because, before I decided to officially call the fic _Do You Feel Like a Young God_ , I debated between _Who Would Ever Want to Be King_ and _Puppet on a Lonely String_. Still really attached to both of those titles, hence this chapter name lmao.**

 **Oh! I almost forgot! Soo, the amazing and lovely and incredible ouroborosasunder on Tumblr gifted me with some of their amazing and lovely and incredible art based off this fic! Ahh, I'm on cloud nine ~**


	9. You'll Never Take the Blame

"Are you deranged like me?

Are you strange like me?

Lighting matches just to swallow up the flame like me?

Do you call yourself a fucking hurricane like me?

Pointing fingers 'cause you'll never take the blame like me."

\- _Gasoline,_ Halsey

* * *

Merlin had always thought that he would leave.

If Arthur ever found out the truth, if Arthur ever found out he had magic, and if Arthur ever locked him in the dungeons, if Arthur ever put him on the pyre, Merlin had always thought that he would just leave. He would get out. He wouldn't hang around and wait for Arthur to kill him, and he wouldn't waste the time to try and tell Arthur of the prophecy, of Albion, of fate and destiny and dragons that never said enough, no, he wouldn't do that, he wouldn't stop to try and explain himself, he wouldn't make a mistake like that, he would save himself, he would rescue himself, he would get himself out of the kingdom, no matter the hurt and betrayal he would leave behind, all the shattered friendships and unsaid goodbyes. He would get to his chambers, he would pack up his things, and he would _run_ , as far and as fast as his feet could carry him.

Merlin never really made it much farther than that, to tell the truth, at least not inside his head—what he would do from there, where he would go, how he would hide himself, if he would ever get to see his mother or Gaius or any of his friends again, if he would ever come back to Camelot, if Arthur would ever forgive him, the questions had always lurked, unanswered, in the back of his mind—but it had always seemed something so simple to him, a bright certainty that burned in his brain, this steady and constant fire inside him. _I'll leave,_ he had thought, so many times, he could recite it all from memory, and it had all seemed so simple, every time, socertain, _I'll leave, I'll just leave, I'll go away, I'll go far away, somewhere Arthur will never find me, I won't let him kill me, I'll never let him kill me, I won't die at his hand, I won't do that, I won't do that, I won't die like that, I won't let myself die like that._

But— _here_ — _now—_

It could happen today, it could happen now, right now, and if it did, if it happened, if it happened here, if it happened now, if Arthur found out the truth, if Arthur found out he had magic, if Arthur locked him in the dungeons, if Arthur put him on the pyre—

 _I can't leave him,_ and it jolted Merlin, to think of it like that, like lightning in his veins, _I can't leave him, even then, I can't leave him, no matter what he does to me, no matter if he tries to kill me, I can't leave him, I can't do that, I can't leave him, not now, not just now, who's going to look after him when I'm gone, who's going to protect him when I'm gone, who will step up and stop Morgana, no one else can do it, God knows no one else can do it, no one else can stand against her magic, no one else has got any magic to go up against her, not like me, no one else, there's no one else but me, I have to stay, I can't leave him to face her alone, I can't leave him, I have to stay here, I have to stay here no matter what he does to me, I can't leave him,_ and the panic of it pounded endlessly away inside him as he rushed through the winding halls.

He deliberately lagged a little bit behind Arthur the whole of the way to the council chambers—it wouldn't do a damned ounce of good if he got himself caught and sent off to the Lower Town before he had even heard so much as a single word of the meeting— _not that any of it will do any good at all_ , _I can't leave him, I know I can't leave him, I know I have to stay, no matter what he might to do me, I have to stay with him_ —the thought fluttered frantically around in his mind like a butterfly behind glass—and if he kills me, what then, what am I supposed to do, then, it won't matter if I stayed if he kills me, it won't matter at all—

Merlin only barely cleared the entrance to the council chambers and slipped, unseen, to the shadowed, secluded— _safe_ —spot behind the nearest column before the heavy stone doors sighed shut, like so many old and tired ghosts, at his back. He didn't look around the edge of the pillar—not now, not yet, that would come later, when no one cared about some wayward servant who shouldn't be there—but he listened, hard as he could, head pressed to the pillar, to the silence, loud as a scream and heavy as a stone, and somehow worse, so much worse, than all the words in all the world, and Merlin felt his hands start to tremble, again, against the cold, rough stone of the column. Maybe I should tell him, and his stomach twisted up in a thousand tight and terrified knots, maybe I should tell him, maybe I should just tell him, just get it over with, put an end to it, maybe it would be better that way, if I did, if I do, if I stepped forward right now and just said—

"Thank you," Arthur's voice seemed to ring, bright and clear as an early-morning bell, through the whole of the cavernous chamber, and so suddenly, it startled Merlin from the depths of his own mind, "all of you, for your courage here today."

 _Well, there you are, then, can't tell him now, can I? He's gone and started his speech now. It would be pretty rude to interrupt him, after all._ The thousand tight and terrified knots in his stomach loosened. _Can't tell him now. Best not to tell him now._

"—truly a noble thing you do this day, to aid your kingdom in the fight against sorcery—"

 _Oh, don't—_ Merlin swallowed hard and shut his eyes, but the heavy lump in his throat wouldn't go away— _don't, Arthur, don't do that, don't say that, don't talk like that, please, don't talk like that, don't you see yourself, don't you hear yourself, don't you know how much you sound like your father—?_

"My Lord—?"

Merlin's eyes snapped back open again with the shock of it. _Maude?_ Yes—he stole a quick glance 'round the side of the column to be sure—that was Maude, certain as the sunlight, he knew it from the plain brown shawl wrapped around her hunched, withered shoulders. Sweet old Maude from the Lower Town, who never missed Mass and made cherry pies for the poor children every other Sunday and still mourned her husband ten years after, and oh, God, what if it was her, what if it was Maude, the same sweet and lonely little lady who made Merlin steaming cups of hot, strong tea and let her grumpy grey cat curl up in his lap every time he came 'round with Gaius' special salve to soothe her old and aching joints, would it be Maude to say it, to tell Arthur—?

 _Will it be Maude,_ Merlin wondered, and his heart crashed, recklessly hard and fast, in his chest as he thought of it, _will it be Maude, then, to put an end to everything, to drag all the secrets and lies into the light, to show him what lies hidden in the shadows, will it be Maude, then, and not me, and not Morgana, and not even Agravaine, to look Arthur in the eye and finally tell him the truth, finally tell him what I should have told him—?_

"I saw nothing of the sorcerer," Maude said, in her quiet, steady voice, soft and lilting like a song, soft and lilting like the sea. "He moved as a shadow, Sire. A phantom." A shudder rolled through her ancient frame, and she pulled her shawl tighter around her.

Something like hope stirred in Merlin's stomach to hear it— _she didn't see, she didn't see, she says she didn't see, it's okay, she says she didn't see_ —

"Nothing? You saw nothing to identify—?"

Merlin ducked back behind the pillar again—on instinct, on reflex, he didn't mean to, he didn't want to, and it was stupid, wasn't it, to try and hide, like a startled rabbit, like a frightened child—he didn't _need_ to hide, not from Agravaine—

"No, my Lord," Maude said simply. "Dark and distance did much to hide him from me. But I pray to God my king and his good knights will find him soon."

"I pray the same," Arthur said seriously. "Thank you for your information."

Merlin edged, tentatively, around the side of the pillar again to look out upon the room. _It's all right. She doesn't know. She's said she doesn't know. She's said she didn't see._

"The sorcerer did move quickly, Sire," a man stepped forward this time— _Hugh,_ _baker in the Lower Town, kindly smile, soft voice, fantastic pastries, always covered in flour, lost his wife six years ago, loves his daughter Lillith more than anything, asks for a headache remedy or sleeping draught every other week,_ Merlin's mind reflexively reminded him. "I'm afraid I didn't manage to get a good glimpse of him, either."

"Like a shadow, Sire," Anisa nodded, and her pale pink headscarf shifted slightly with the motion— _tailor's daughter,_ Merlin remembered, _loves flowers, kisses you on the cheek if you say you're all right with it—_ "Cast his curse over every house within the hour."

"—horrific to witness," Wilhelma broke in, and shuddered. "A terror to behold."

"—could have been the devil himself—"

"—sure he was going to murder us all in our beds—"

"—won't let the little ones out alone until he's caught—"

No one—and God, Merlin could hardly believe it, but it was true, it was real—no one had seen him, no one had seen him, no one had seen him at all, and as the truth of it started to sink in, he really thought he might faint with the fierce, heady relief of it. No one had seen. It was all right after all. No one had seen. No one could say it was him. No one could tell Arthur the truth, no one could tell Arthur about Merlin, no one could tell Arthur anything at all. It was all right. Everything was all right. No one had seen.

Merlin slumped back against the pillar—the rough, uneven stone of the column dug deep, bruising fingers into him, his back, his shoulders, the hollow curve of his spine, but he shut his eyes and he dragged in breath after gasping, ragged breath as the fervent relief of it rushed through him again and again—euphoria, even, the giddy sort of glee that set his whole body to shaking like a leaf caught in a high wind. No one had seen, no one had seen, no one had seen. The words pulsed, over and over again, through his numb brain. Even now, he hardly dared to believe it. To believe he could have been so lucky. It was all right. Everything was going to be all right. No one had seen.

Arthur would never know.

Arthur would never, ever know.

Merlin dragged in one last, slightly unsteady breath, and slipped back out of the council room.

* * *

A hundred thousand times now, Merlin knew, he had seen Camelot like this, _just_ like this, a hundred thousand times before—Nimeuh's plagues and afancs and poisons, Aredian's hunts and arrests and accusations, Morgause's knights and duels and undead armies, Kilgharrah's flames and blasts and unending siege—but his heart still thudded in his chest, so hard it hurt, to see the vacant roads and shuttered shops and blank windows, staring back at him in a silent, deafening condemnation on every side, sad shadows and hollow shells of bright and bustling homes.

 _And all because of me._

The guilt settled slowly, like sour bile, at the back of Merlin's throat.

Everything that had happened here had happened because of him. His magic, his spells, his wards and barriers and defenses and _I just wanted to protect them, that's it, that's all, that's all I wanted, to protect them, to look out for them, that's what I meant to do, that's all I meant to do_ and it didn't matter anymore, nothing mattered but the way the empty streets stretched empty in front of him, on and on, as far as he could see—nothing mattered but the way that door creaked, long and low, where it still dangled limply off old, rusted hinges and swayed wearily out of its splintered frame and nothing mattered but the way the awnings and tarps over the abandoned market stalls had come loose, colorful cloth bowing under the weight of the fresh white powder of the early morning, and the snow sparkled silver as it fluttered and fell in great dancing flakes all about the town and the ice glistened, bright as glass, on the edges and undersides of the rooftops and everything and nothing slammed into him like a mace, like a stone, and it all came back to him in the end, didn't it, everything came right back to him again, 'round and 'round and 'round again, in a circle, in a hoop— _and it's my fault, it's my fault, it's all my fault, this is all my fault, this is all because of me, all this pain, all this fear, all this bad, it's here because of me, it exists because of me, I did this to the Lower Town, I did this to everyone, and I did this and I'm rotten, I'm rotten all the way through, I'm filled up with filth and it spills over and bursts out on anybody who gets too close to me, on everybody who gets too close to me, and maybe if I ripped myself open wide enough, all this filth would just fall out of me_ —and even when Merlin moved, again, when he made his way down the crooked, labyrinthine street to the little house Gwen and Elyan still shared, even when he tapped lightly on the door, the circle, the hoop, wouldn't stop spinning, 'round and 'round again, in his head.

The latch rattled a little at Merlin's touch, and the noise of it echoed again and again in his ears. It unsettled him in a way he couldn't really explain. Not even to himself. Looters and thieves were common in this stretch of town, he knew, but to think of that with a sorcerer on the loose—to take the time to bolt up all the doors, seal up all the windows, with a sorcerer on the loose—for the first time since Arthur had ordered him off to the Lower Town, the first prickle of fear, _real_ fear, for Elyan and Gwen, stirred in his stomach. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe he hadn't been the only sorcerer in the Lower Town, and all this pain and all this panic really meant something after all—

The lock clicked, loudly, on the other side, and Merlin looked, incredulously, to the rattling bolt. Gwen and Elyan had _stayed_? Even through all the fear, all the panic, all the sorcery—?

The door scraped open, scarcely an inch, a rough and grating rasp of wood on wood, and through the hairline crack of it, Elyan glared furiously back at him, the blade of his sword a silver gleam in one fist, and his eyes narrowed to nearly nothing but dark brown slits in his tensed and tired face. "What—?" His dark brows lifted up in an arch that would have made Gaius proud. He moved back a bit, and pulled the door wide, one hand out to wave Merlin in. "God, Merlin, what are you _doing_ here?"

"Arthur sent me," Merlin slipped through the narrow entrance as he spoke, "there—there was a sorcerer—"

"I know." Elyan slammed the door shut. "Hard to miss." He clicked the lock firmly back into place.

Merlin looked away—he didn't want to see, didn't think he could stand to see, all the pain and exhaustion and fear in Elyan's face, in Elyan's eyes, and know he had put it there, to know it was his fault, and to know he couldn't do anything to fix it, he couldn't do anything to make it right— _I'm filled up with filth, see how it spills over onto Elyan_ —

"Arthur shouldn't have sent you," Elyan said, and so suddenly, and so _sharply,_ it pulled Merlin back out of his own mind again at once. "It's not _safe_."

 _Oh._ Merlin couldn't help it—the corner of his lip just flicked up in a little grin. _Oh, Elyan._ "I can handle myself."

"Not against a _sorcerer_ ," Elyan said the last word like a curse— _like it's_ _something rotten,_ Merlin thought, hard as he tried not to— _something filled up with filth._

Gwen clicked her tongue. "Oh, _honestly_ , Elyan," she came to the door, and dried her damp hands on the front of her plain dress as she went, "you could _at least_ give Merlin a moment or two by the hearth before you start in on him. Look at him, he's frozen through." She reached out a hand and brushed a few powdery flecks of snow from Merlin's shoulder.

Merlin had not even noticed the sparkling crystals where they clung to the cloth of his jacket. "I'm fine," he said, a little blankly, and so quickly, he knew Gwen wouldn't believe him, wouldn't listen to him, but it hardly mattered, because it hit him then, right then, that he had started to shake again— _really_ shake, not just in his hands, but all over, everywhere, jolting shivers and sharp, jerking shudders rolling through him, and he could hardly even feel it at all. He could hardly feel the cold, he could hardly feel the shudders, he could hardly feel much of anything at all and _isn't that funny—?_

"Oh, don't be silly, Merlin," Gwen took his hands up in hers, and his numb fingers tingled with the sudden warmth of her skin, "you're like _ice_. Come here and sit a minute, it's really no trouble."

"N-No, I—" Merlin couldn't look to the hearth, couldn't look at the fire— _what do you think Arthur will do when he sees you for who you really are—_ not for more than a moment before he felt his stomach pull tight. "—I'm all right. Arthur's called a meeting," he added, hastily, and turned back to Elyan before Gwen could try and take up the argument with him again. "He's asked me to send for you. He needs you there."

"I—I can't." Elyan glanced at Gwen. A heavy frown settled on his lips. "I can't—that sorcerer is still—"

"Oh, go on, Elyan, I'll be all right, you know that." Gwen put a hand, reassuringly, on her brother's arm and pulled her mouth up in a smile. "You shouldn't worry about me. It's Arthur who needs you right now."

"I'll stay with her." Merlin tilted his head at Gwen.

"There's no need," Gwen shook her head, "really, you don't have to—"

"It's all right," Merlin assured her, "Arthur already sent me here to help with the preparations for your trip."

"The—the preparations?" A faint, tired smile tugged at one side of Gwen's small mouth. "You're joking, Merlin, he still remembered that? With all this going on, too?"

Merlin cocked an eyebrow—he didn't think he could manage a smile today even if he tried. "Come on, it's _Arthur_. Have you ever known him to break his word to you?"

The lift of Gwen's lip rose a little higher, and she ducked her head. A bit of pink crept into her dusky cheeks.

"You'll—?" Elyan hesitated a moment more, one hand stretched out at his back for the door, and his strong fingers gone slack around the hilt of his sword. His gaze flicked from Merlin to Gwen and back again. "You'll look after—?"

Gwen glanced up at her brother and arched her eyebrows. "I'll try my best."

Merlin huffed out a half-chuckle under his breath, and the thin, serious line of Elyan's mouth twitched, for a minute or two, before his brown eyes snapped firmly back onto Merlin, and he clenched his jaw.

"Take care of her."

"Always."

With one last nod, Elyan ducked out the door and disappeared into the street, his sword still clutched in one broad, white-knuckled hand. Gwen stared, the lines around her mouth and eyes gone hard and tight, at the empty entranceway for several moments after, the exhaustion and the strain of it all spelled out, clear as words on a page, across her taut, dark face.

"He'll be all right," Merlin said, quietly, because he couldn't say _I'm sorry I did this to you, I'm so sorry I did this to you, I swear, I never meant for this to happen, I never meant for all this pain and all this fear, I only wanted to help._ "He's _Elyan_."

Gwen's lips hitched up in a hesitant smile. "I know." The pain still prowled like a hunting wolf in her eyes. "I know." She swallowed, and it sounded like a scream in all that silence.

 _Oh. Gwen._ Merlin's heart twisted sharply up inside him. _Oh, Gwen, I'm so sorry, I did this to you, it's my fault—_ he lifted a hand to touch her—a pat on the shoulder or a quick squeeze of her fingers or an arm around her to pull her into a hug, he just wanted her to be all right again, to brush those hard and tight lines from her face, but he—

— _do you think, if she knew who you really are, that she would want you touch her at all, do you really think that's a good idea, won't you get your rot on her, won't you spill your filth on her, won't you just make everything worse—?_

—he couldn't.

Merlin dropped his hand back to his side.

Gwen turned suddenly, sharply, from the door. "I'll—I'll put us on a pot of tea, shall I?"

* * *

"No one," Arthur said, and in the silence of his own bedchamber, his words seemed to echo off every wall, every window, every dark corner and hairline crack in the room, "no one, out of eleven witnesses, could get us even a rudimentary description of the sorcerer." He rubbed, tiredly, at his temples again as the familiar pulse of pain throbbed through his head. Unidentified sorcerer on the loose. Add it to the list, he supposed. Like he didn't already have more than enough to get on with lately.

"Oh," Agravaine put a warm, gentle hand on his shoulder, "no, you _mustn't_ be discouraged, Arthur. Bear in mind, the witnesses you met today from the Lower Town were merely our first resort. Rest assured, we have far more resources on our hands, and we will not rest until we have eliminated the threat." His mouth turned up in a small, reassuring smile.

Arthur didn't smile back—he didn't even think he could—but with his uncle at his side, with his uncle's hand on his shoulder, with his uncle's faith and confidence ringing in his ears, the world didn't weigh so heavy on him anymore. "You're right. As usual," he added, ruefully, and Agravaine chuckled a bit, under his breath—far too humble to say it for himself, but too honest to tell Arthur any different.

Another ache rolled through Arthur's skull, and he had to put a hand to his head again, skin hot and tight under the touch of his own fingers. If he thought he knew enough about medicine to do it, he'd go down to Gaius' chambers this instant and get himself a few dozen of the old man's strongest painkillers. Maybe he would get Merlin to fetch him one or two whenever he got back from the Lower Town—

Oh, God, _Merlin_.

Another sigh slipped out through Arthur's teeth almost before he could stop it. _Merlin._ What was he supposed to do about Merlin? _Well,_ he had to admit, to himself, at least, _I don't know what I'm supposed to do about the sorcerer, either, or the Saxons on the border, or Lord Warwick, I don't know what I'm supposed to do about any of it, not just yet, not really, but Merlin—_

— _Merlin could be getting hurt now, right now, right this instant, and no one's there to look after him, no one's there to help him, because I was stupid and I was selfish and I sent him off so I didn't have to think about him, so I didn't have to deal with him, so I didn't have to look at him and wonder—_

"Sire?" Agravaine lightly squeezed at his shoulder.

Arthur pulled in a breath—this, here, right here, wasn't this why he had sent Merlin off to the Lower Town in the first place? So he wouldn't have to think about it, wouldn't have to worry about it, wouldn't have to look at Merlin and wonder _who's hurting you, who's doing this to you, and why didn't you tell me, why didn't you just tell me, you know you could have told me and I would have handled it, I would have done something, I would have looked after you_ —

Arthur pushed himself up off the wall. He didn't have time to think about it. Not now. Not in all of this. "Search the Lower Town," he ordered, and turned to look out the window. "The homes, the shops, the market stalls, if you must, but don't leave anything untouched. I want every man we can spare on this."

 _We need every man we can spare on this. Camelot needs every man we can spare on this._

"Sire? If—if I may speak freely?"

Arthur blinked, and turned from the window to look at Agravaine. "You—you may. Of course you may." _Have I said something wrong? Have I made a bad choice, have I made the wrong choice, have I misunderstood what must be done—?_

"I—I wonder," Agravaine rubbed at his chin, "whether we ought to focus _all_ our efforts on the Lower Town."

Arthur frowned. "An attempt will be made at a later stage to narrow the area, but this early in the process, we cannot take the risk to rule anything out. I'm sure you understand."

"No, no, I quite agree, Sire. I did not mean to cast doubt upon your decisions, I actually believe—" Agravaine clenched his hand around the back of Arthur's desk chair, knuckles white against the dark, shining wood, "—I actually believe we ought to _broaden_ our search."

"Broaden?" Arthur raised his eyebrows. _The whole of the Lower Town_ certainly felt a rather broad area to _him_. "The citadel as well, then? Is that what you suggest?"

"The citadel," Agravaine nodded, and flicked his eyes up to meet Arthur's gaze. "The castle."

"The castle?" Arthur echoed blankly. It was utterly ridiculous even to think of it, in the way of a small and rather silly child who asked outlandish questions or entertained eccentric fears. There was far too much security for a sorcerer to slip through even for a second, let alone to linger within the walls. "Uncle, surely you can _not_ think—"

"I think nothing as of yet, Sire. To make such an assumption would be unwise in the extreme. But it is as you have said," Agravaine tilted his head, and lifted a thick, dark brow. "We cannot take the risk to rule anything out."

Damn it. Arthur rubbed at the side of his head again. God knew Agravaine raised a good point, and to try and ignore it entirely, to push ahead with his own plan, could see the sorcerer fall through the cracks. Thousands upon thousands of lives hinged on his next words, and if he made the wrong choice, if he gave the wrong order, if he went at this from the wrong angle—

"All right," he let out a long breath, and nodded a little, "all right, we will extend our search to the castle and the citadel as well. But we must not spread our forces too thin, either, Lord Agravaine. Our resources are not inexhaustible, and I have already placed many heavy demands on the lot of them lately."

"Of course, Sire," Agravaine dipped his head. "If it will be easier on you, I will gladly oversee the search of the castle myself."

"Yes," Arthur said, and a great, warm rush of gratitude swept through him—what would he ever do without Agravaine? "Yes, that would be excellent. Thank you, Uncle. I trust you will ensure the examinations are thorough."

"Oh, I swear it upon my life, Sire."

* * *

 **Notes: yeah, I'm showing up to this story again two months late with Starbucks. and a new chapter. this is just gonna be a regular occurrence now, I guess, where every chapter takes me a literal eternity to write and I die at least three times before I ever get it posted. it's only the thought of the whump to come that drags me right back out of my grave.**

 **So I really don't have an excuse as to why this one took me such a long time - I thought I'd have it up by the end of June, if that tells you anything - except I just kept going over it again and again. I must have rewritten this chapter about five times, maybe six, and even once it was finished, I kept coming back to tweak a line here or a paragraph there, and finally I realized I was never going to stop making edits and changes unless I just posted it. I think it's okay as it is, maybe not fantastic, but if y'all still expect fantastic work from me, y'all haven't been paying attention.**

 **Also, YES, I am absolutely SHAMELESSLY milking the eventual magic reveal for all it's worth. i cannot be stopped. In the original outline, it was meant to happen in this chapter, actually, but if I drag it out a little bit more, really let Merlin's anxiety build and build, I hope it'll pack a bit more of a punch when it finally DOES happen. anyways. thanks so much for sticking with me so far. peace!**


	10. Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

"Gonna make a heartthrob out of me,

Just a bit of minor surgery,

These desperate times call,

For desperate measures."

\- _Desperate Measures_ , Marianas Trench

* * *

If there was even one good thing to come out of all of this, Merlin supposed, at least his orders from Arthur and his promise to Elyan let him stay with Gwen. He didn't know how he would have ever walked away from her, he didn't know how he would have looked in her anxious brown eyes and turned 'round and left her to drown in all that fear. And even if he couldn't make it better for her—even if _he_ had done this to her, and oh, God, he knew he had, he knew he had done this, he knew he carried the blame, he knew had filled her up with all this fear, he knew his filth had spilled out onto her, and _maybe I should just stay away from everyone, maybe I shouldn't be around anyone, not until I know how to keep this rot inside of me, not until I know how to keep all the bad where it belongs, under my skin, maybe I shouldn't even be here, maybe I should just leave_ —

No. No, he had to stay with Gwen through this. He had done this to her, and he couldn't make it right, and he couldn't make it better, but he could be _with her_ in this fear, and for now, that would have to be enough.

"When Arthur sent me off to see to you," he said, as lightly as he could, but the words still fell heavy in his own ears, and the smile on his face left an ache in his cheeks, with how hard he had to work to keep it there, "I'm pretty sure this is _not_ what he had in mind." All the same, he merely tightened his numb hands around the small, tin cup of tea on the table in front of him—the warm metal nearly burned under his frozen fingers, and he could hardly help but to soak it in—and settled back a bit farther in his seat. "I think I'm meant to be, y'know, actually _helping_ you."

"Don't be silly," Gwen said at once—a bit of the color had come back to her cheeks, and she had started to sound steadier, since she had poured the tea, or perhaps even since she had put the kettle on. Hardly a surprise, though—that always was her way, busy her hands and empty her mind. She leaned back against the counter and smiled over the rim of her cup at Merlin, but there was still something a touch too tired in the lift of her lips. "You're _here_. That's helping. And it means so much to me, Merlin, thank you."

 _No_ —Merlin's stomach pulled tight— _no, please, don't do that, don't say that, please, don't thank me, don't, please don't, you don't know it, but I did this to you, and I can't make it better, I can only make it worse, because I'm rotten, I'm rotten, I'm full of filth and it spills out onto everyone, onto you, and if I just knew how to keep it inside of me, I wouldn't—_

"Well," Gwen pushed lightly off the counter and set her teacup down on the table with a soft clink, "why don't I fix you something to eat? I can't imagine your morning's been any calmer than mine, and I know you're _terrible_ for missing breakfast—"

"Oh, no, Gwen," Merlin shook his head, and took his hands off his teacup, "no, really, there's no need for that. I'm all right, I don't need—I'm not really hungry." He hadn't felt hungry in ages, really—not since Agravaine had kissed him at the coronation, maybe, or maybe not since Uther—and Lancelot—

"Merlin," Gwen turned back to the counter, and tossed him a glance over her shoulder—the stern sort of look a mother might send a fussy child, "I _won't_ have you work on an empty stomach." She opened the breadbox, pushed into the corner between the cupboards, and pulled out half a loaf of dark brown bread and a small silver knife.

She cut off a thick slice from the end of the loaf—Merlin nearly argued, but he knew better than to go against Gwen when she had made up her mind—put it on a small plate, and set it down, with a thud, in front of him on the table.

"There," she took her own seat, then, opposite Merlin, and picked up her teacup again. "It's not much, but you really _must_ have something if you're to run 'round all day."

"I'm fine, Gwen," Merlin murmured, half to himself, and the bottom of his stomach seared with a sharp burn of shame. _She shouldn't have done this, not for me, not when this is all my fault to start with, I shouldn't have let her, why did I let her—?_

"Don't," Gwen said, firmly, "don't say that, Merlin, you look dead on your feet. You really shouldn't work yourself so hard."

Merlin almost laughed— _right, yes, work is clearly the problem here, yes, of course, just a touch too much work, let's pretend that's it, that would be so much easier, wouldn't it_ —only something inside him hurts too much to let him. He dropped his eyes down to the slice of bread, so he wouldn't have to look at her.

"Merlin," Gwen leaned forward a little, and put her cup down again, "listen, I—" she stopped there, bit her lip, "—I can't—I can't even _imagine_ how difficult things must be for you right now—"

"What?" Merlin jerked his head up, his heart in his throat. _What does she know, what did she see, where did I go wrong, where did I slip up, where did she get through—?_

Gwen swallowed—the dusky skin of her throat stretched taut, for a moment, with the motion of it. "Arthur tells me—"

Merlin's stomach jolted. _Arthur? No, no, Arthur can't ever see what's right in front of him, why on earth would he start now—?_

"—you were the one to see it. See _him_." Gwen reached out, suddenly, and took Merlin's hand up in her own. She laid their interlaced fingers lightly on the table. _"Lancelot."_

 _Oh._ Merlin's insides turned cold as the heavy shroud of snow over the citadel. "G-Gwen—" he shook his head, tried to stop her, tried to pull back from her.

"I'm sorry," Gwen whispered, and she wouldn't look away from him, and oh, God, how he wished she would. "I'm sorry you had to—to see that." She swallowed, again, and he could hear it in the silence. "I really can't imagine how hard that must have been for you."

"I'm fine," Merlin said, again, except what he really wanted to say was _please stop, please stop, just stop it, don't make me talk about it, don't make me think about it, don't make me say his name, don't make me hear his name_ —he could still feel her eyes on him, and everywhere her gaze landed, he could swear it left little black holes in his skin, black holes burning up like fires, like embers, at their edges, and he just—he just wanted it stop, he just wanted it to _go away_ , he didn't ever want anyone to look at him ever again, he just wanted to _disappear_ and maybe then she wouldn't look at him like this—and if he disappeared, Arthur wouldn't look at him, either, with all that—all that exhaustion and irritation and _why are you so stupid, why aren't you good enough_ and if he disappeared, Gwaine wouldn't look at him like he could see right through, like he knew it all, like he knew everything, and if he disappeared—if he disappeared, _Agravaine would never look at him again_ —

" _Please_ , Merlin," Gwen's small, warm hand tightened around his, "please, just let me say this. I want you to hear this. I want you to know this."

Merlin bit his lip— _oh, no, Gwen, don't, please, don't make me listen to this, don't make me hear his name_ —and jerked his chin down in a clumsy, graceless nod.

Gwen let out a soft, shaky breath, and Merlin could feel her fingers tremble, in his, and a hot burst of shame swelled up under his skin. _This is hard for her, too, this is just as hard for her as it is for me—no, it's harder for her, she loved Lancelot, no matter what she tried to tell me, no matter that she chose Arthur, she always loved Lancelot, and this is so hard for her, this must be so hard for her, and it shouldn't be like this, it should be the other way 'round, I should help her, not the other way 'round, I should take care of her, I should look after her, I should make her feel better—_

"Look at me," Gwen said, softly, " _please_ , Merlin, look at me. I need to know you're hearing me."

Merlin lifted his head—and he could feel his hand, in his lap, clench up in a fist, he could feel his fingers curl up in his palm, he could feel the sting of his own nails bite into his skin, but he lifted his head, and he looked at Gwen. He should—he should do something, now, he should smile, to show her he was all right, he was fine, and he didn't need this, he wasn't the one who needed this, it was her, she was the one who needed—who needed to be—

"I know you were the one to see it happen," Gwen shut her eyes, for a second, and her hand started to shake, again, where she still held his.

"Gwen," Merlin leaned forward a little, in his seat, "it's—it's all right, you don't have to—I know he was—I know you were—"

"I know you were the one to see it happen," Gwen said, and she sounded stronger this time. She opened up her eyes again, and her gaze snapped back onto him in an instant. "But that doesn't make it your fault."

Merlin couldn't move—couldn't speak—he couldn't _breathe_ —

"I know you, Merlin," she added, and her lips turned up a bit, at the corners, in a small, sad smile. "I know you, and I know how much you want to save everyone you see." She shook her head slightly, and her dark curls dusted down her brown cheek. "But if he—if he did that—I think he had—" her mouth started to tremble, "—I think he had planned it, Merlin. I think Lancelot had it in his head f-for—for a very long time. There wasn't anything you could have done to—to change it—"

 _No, that's not true, that's not true, that's not true, Gwen, he was going to come home to you, he was going to come back to you, he would never have abandoned you for anything, if I hadn't let him—if I hadn't told him, if I had just pretended, if I had just kept it quiet—_

"—I asked him," Gwen said, "to take care of Arthur. If anyone is to blame, Merlin, it's me. Certainly not you." She smiled, but her brown eyes brimmed with tears. " _Certainly_ not you." The curve of her lip never fell, never faltered, but she looked at him like she merely waited for him to turn on her—to yell at her, to scream at her, to shove her away and blame her for all of it, for everything—

 _Oh._ Merlin's heart hurt just to look at her. _Oh, Gwen, no, don't, you shouldn't, you didn't do anything, you didn't make him—it was me, I made him—I made him do this_ —

"He didn't—" Merlin said, but it sounded flat and faraway in his own ears, "—he didn't plan it, Gwen. He wasn't—he wasn't going to do it until—until I—" he couldn't go on, then, he had to stop, he had to swallow back all the rest of it— _he wasn't going to do it until I said I would, but God, I meant it, I would never have let him do that, not for me, I told the Callieach to take me, and I meant it, I wanted her to do it, I meant it with everything in me, and I still don't know why Lancelot did what he did, I still don't know why he did it for me, he shouldn't have done that for me—_

"Oh," a soft, sorrowful sound left Gwen's lips, "oh, Merlin—you were going to—" she leaned back, suddenly, in her seat, "you were going to do it, weren't you? You were going to—for _Arthur_ —" she pressed her hand to her mouth, "—oh, _Merlin_ —"

"N-No, I—I wasn't—" Merlin said, at once, but that was stupid, wasn't it, God, that was _so stupid_ —if Gwen already knew, if Gwen had already worked it out for herself, he could hardly expect to hide it anymore. _Yes_ , Lancelot had known. Lancelot had always known. Right from the start, Lancelot had known. But Merlin had never _wanted_ that, he had never _meant_ for that, he hadn't counted on that, he hadn't wanted Lancelot to—he hadn't meant for Lancelot to— _but I should have known he would do it, I should have known it, I should have seen it, that's the way Lancelot is and I should have seen it, I should have known it, I should have stopped it, and saved him, I should have saved him_ —

"A-And Lancelot _knew_ ," Gwen said, and her words hardly reached a hushed, unsteady whisper, "didn't he?"

Merlin shook his head—it was instinct, it was reflex, he couldn't stop it, he couldn't stop himself, he just—he just wanted it to _not_ be true anymore, he just wanted to finally scrub Lancelot's blood off his own hands, he didn't want to live with it anymore, and _I killed him, I killed him, it was my fault, I don't get to cry about it, I don't get to do that, I don't get to grieve this, I don't get to grieve him, I don't get to be sorry_ —

"Yeah," he said, finally, and it sounded far too loud in his own ears, a scream in the silence of the room. "Yeah. He knew." He pulled his hand back from hers—the truth about Lancelot was only the tip of the iceberg, not even the worst of it, but Merlin knew better than to think Gwen would want him to even touch her, after what he had just told her. "It wasn't you," he pushed out through tight throat, through numb lips. "It was never you, and Lancelot wouldn't—" he dropped his hand, skin still warm from Gwen's, down into his lap, "—Lancelot would _never_ want you to think it was." He lowered his eyes to the plate of bread again—he couldn't look at her anymore, he couldn't—he couldn't face her, he couldn't look at her and tell her _I'm sorry I did this to him, to you, to Arthur, I hurt everyone when I said—when I told him—_

"No," Gwen said, at last, "no, I don't suppose he would."

Merlin swallowed— _good, that's good, she ought to know that, she ought to know Lancelot loved her until the end, she ought to know Lancelot would never blame her. That's good. I'm happy for her. It hardly matters what she thinks of me, then, does it, because she knows she's not to blame, she knows it's not her fault, and that's really what matters, isn't it, that's what's really important, after all._

"But it wasn't _you_ , either."

Merlin's breath hooked in the back of his throat—his breath trembled, on the way out of his mouth—he snapped his head back up to look at her— _no, that's—that's not what's supposed to—why is she—why did she—?_

"It wasn't you, Merlin. It wasn't your fault." Gwen turned her empty hand upside down on the table, until her palm showed. "And Lancelot—" her mouth turned up, just a touch, at the edges, "—would _never_ want you to think it was."

 _I don't care,_ Merlin wanted to shout at her, he wanted to _scream_ it at her, _I don't care, you can't do that, you don't get to do that, you don't get to take that and turn it back around on me, you don't get to do that, not to me, it's not like that with me, it's not like that, I really am to blame, it really was my fault, I might have gone ahead and pushed Lancelot through the veil with my own hands—_ God, Merlin just wanted to get out of here, out of Gwen's house, out from under the weight of her warm, bright eyes, out of his own damned _skin_ —maybe if he just ripped all the flesh off his bones, this would all stop, and he would feel better, maybe he would finally feel like he could breathe again—

"Oh," Gwen huffed out a light little laugh, but there was no humor, not really, in the sound of it, "look at us—what would Lancelot think of us if he could see us right now?" She sniffled, and swiped at the damp trail on her cheeks. "He wouldn't want us to—we both know he wouldn't want us to—and here we are anyway—" her smile looked a little too tight at the corners, "—silly, aren't we?"

"Y-Yeah," Merlin nodded, numbly, "yeah. Silly." He pushed the plate and the teacup away, into the center of the table, and clambered to his feet. Maybe, if he could just pull Gwen back out of her own head, she would—she would stop, and she wouldn't talk about Lancelot anymore, and he wouldn't have to think about it, he wouldn't have to—

"We should start on your packs," Merlin said, firmly. "Don't you think?"

* * *

Arthur had thought—well, no, he hadn't _thought_ , not really, but he had—well, he had _hoped_ —yes, all right, fine, that was it—he had _hoped_ Merlin might look a little better, by the time the idiot finally found his way back to the castle. And that was stupid, really—that was a _stupid_ thing to think, that was a _stupid_ thing to hope, God knew if anything Gwaine had said was true, nothing would help Merlin, nothing would make Merlin look any better, nothing would make Merlin _feel_ any better, not until Arthur got the name of the bastard who had put his idiot servant in this state, and driven him clear from the kingdom with a sword at his back.

Stupid as it was, though, Arthur _had_ hoped for it. Arthur had hoped Guinevere might have helped him—God knew she was a hundred times better than him, at things like this, things like Merlin, and feelings and, well, almost anything he couldn't just hit with a sword over and over until it was gone—but it looked almost as if his time with Guinevere had made him even _worse_.

Yes, Arthur had seen Merlin before he had sent the man off to the Lower Town—the shadows under his eyes, the burn on his cheek, the awkward sort of lurch to his steps, almost a limp, God, the son of a bitch had hurt Merlin bad enough to leave him with a _limp_ —but he looked _worse,_ now, he looked almost as if he had—Arthur didn't have the word for it, but—curled, maybe, or—or crumpled, or—no, collapsed—that was it—Merlin looked as if he had collapsed inward—he looked—God—he looked like he had _caved in on himself_. Like he had _withered_ , almost.

 _I shouldn't have sent him off to see Guinevere,_ and the guilt of it burst up, thick and hot and sour, in the bottom of Arthur's stomach, _I shouldn't have sent him off to see Guinevere, I should have talked to him, I should have just talked to him, like anybody else would do, like anybody else would have done_ —

"Sire," Merlin slid Arthur's lunch on the table, and jerked his head at the food, "come and eat." He smiled, then, and God, it was—it was _horrible_ , Arthur could see how hard he had to work to put it there, to keep it there, Arthur could see the strain of it, in every line of his servant's pale and utterly exhausted face—when was the last time Merlin hadslept—?

No, when was the last time Merlin had even _eaten_ , come to that? The man was already as thin as a rail—he hardly ought to go about and skip meals—

"Sire?" Merlin raised his eyebrows—his smile started to slip, and that was _better,_ almost—a bit of the tension left his face, at least. "You _must_ come and eat. You rushed out to the council meeting this morning before you could have breakfast, and—"

 _Shut up, Merlin,_ but for the first time since he had met the idiot, Arthur bit his tongue, and swallowed it back, and didn't say it. But, God, the man looked like he was about to fall over, and there he went, rambling on about _Arthur, you need to take care of yourself,_ and _I should have talked to him—_ another rush of guilt— _I should have talked to him, I should have just talked to him—_

"Merlin," Arthur said, sharply—yes, all right, he should have done this sooner, he should have brought all this up sooner, but what was it Gaius always said—better late than never— "Merlin, sit down."

Merlin blinked. "Y-Your bed's not made."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Observant as usual. It'll have to stay that way, then, I want you to take a seat."

"Why?" Merlin backed up a step—honestly, he looked like he thought Arthur might order him flogged—

 _Oh._ Arthur's stomach tightened. _Right._ If somebody in this castle really had hurt Merlin badly enough to leave him like this, it was no wonder, then, why his servant looked so terrified. "It's all right," and he winced, immediately, at how awkward it sounded—God, he really was terrible at this, where was Guinevere when you really needed her, "it's all right, Merlin, I only want to talk."

"Talk?" Merlin echoed, and flicked his eyes over to the door. "About—about what?" He swallowed, hard, and his throat bobbed.

"Sit _down_ ," Arthur said, maybe a little bit impatiently this time, but he still didn't raise his voice—Merlin already looked scared out of his mind, and if Arthur started to yell, he was pretty sure his servant might really make a break for it.

Merlin cast another quick glance over his shoulder, at the door, before he turned back to Arthur—he still hesitated, another moment or two, before he finally took a seat. "What—?" He kept his hands in his lap, but Arthur could see, even from here, the way he tapped his fingers on his knee. "What's wrong?"

"Actually," Arthur took a seat of his own, then—it might make Merlin feel better if Arthur didn't spend the whole time towering over him, "you tell me."

"Um." Merlin darted a look at the window—he actually looked like he might jump from his seat and hurl himself bodily through the clear glass, if he thought he could get away with it. "I-I don't know what you mean."

A touch of temper sparked up inside Arthur— _don't be stupid, Merlin, you know what I mean, you idiot, just tell me the truth_ —no, he couldn't do it like that, he wouldn't do it like that—Gwaine said about it _skittish as a spooked horse_ , after all, and Arthur had to admit, Merlin certainly looked it, right about now.

And Arthur would hardly go and yell at a spooked horse. Oh, God, no, that was just—awkward. Never mind. Terrible metaphor, Sir Gwaine.

"What's going on?" Arthur blurted—and maybe it was a bad idea, to put it like that, so blunt, so bald, all bare bones, maybe he could be nicer about it, ease Merlin into it, _just tell me what you can, and don't worry about what you can't_ —that was what Guinevere would have done, he knew, that was how Guinevere would have said it—but he couldn't take this, he couldn't stand this, all this—all this _not knowing_ , not really, not for sure. _Just tell me who did this to you. Just tell me who did this to you, and I swear to you, Merlin, I will make it right._

"You're the one who wanted to talk," Merlin said, very blankly. "You'd know better than me, wouldn't you?"

Oh. And here, Arthur had thought he might have been _too_ blunt about it, too direct about it— _too insensitive about it,_ Guinevere would say, if she could see him right now—but oh, no, it wasn't blunt enough, was it, not direct enough, not for Merlin. _Idiot._

All right, then, if Arthur had to come out and say it, then, he could damn well come out and say it. "Someone's been hurting you, haven't they?"

Every last line of Merlin's face snapped absolutely taut with—God, with _terror_ , actual terror, and it looked so wrong on him, on _Merlin_ , the fearless idiot who never backed down from anything, not even the crown prince of Camelot with a mace, not even an evil sorceress with a deadly song and a dagger up her sleeve.

"No," Merlin said, but oh, God, he _trembled_ , in his chair, "no, why would you—?" He shook his head side to side. "Why would you even _think_ —?"

"You're hurt," Arthur said—he winced, when the words left his mouth—he had tried to soften it, he had _wanted_ to soften it, he hadn't wanted it to sound like that—he hadn't wanted to accuse Merlin, to frighten him, to make him think he had done something wrong, he had done something he should be sorry for, but—but it hadn't come out that way, had it?

"Oh," Merlin's hand stilled, on his knee, and jerked up to cup at his cheek—but he never touched the burn, the raw and blistered pink mark on the side of his face, no, his fingers spread out around it, and that—that looked so practiced, didn't it, so perfect, in a way Arthur couldn't really explain—like he had done it, like he had had to do it, a hundred times already.

"What? This?" Merlin raised his eyebrows, and he relaxed—all the tension left his face, his throat, his shoulders—he laughed, even, and the sound of it made Arthur's stomach clench. It had hurt to look at his smile, but this, right here, this, that laugh—that was _so much worse_. "I got a bit too close to the cookfires in the kitchens," Merlin said, lightly. "Mary had a real go at me about it, you should have heard—I think she's worse than _Gaius_ , actually—"

"No," Arthur said, and he knew, this time, he knew it wasn't soft, it wasn't sweet or sensitive or gentle, the way Guinevere could have done it, the way Percival or Leon could have done it, but he couldn't give a damn anymore about _soft_ and _sweet_ , "no, Merlin, you're _hurt_! You've got a _limp_ , for God's sake! Who _did this_ to you?"

"No one," Merlin said, at once, "I-I walked into Gaius' bench yesterday—bruised my shin—"

Arthur slammed his hand down, hard, on the table, and pushed up from his chair. "Stop _lying_ to me!"

 _Merlin flinched_ —Merlin actually _flinched_ —

 _Oh._ Arthur's anger drained away, then, it took all of an instant for the fiery and furious heat of it died in his chest to numb down to nothing. His stomach twisted, tighter and tighter, until everything inside him had become a tangle, a taut gnarl he couldn't unloose, and he could swear he would be sick at any moment—he had made Merlin _flinch_. He had made that—he had made that happen, he had made— _I frightened him,_ and it jolted him, to think of it like that—he couldn't frighten Merlin if he tried, that was—that was the way it was supposed to be, the way it should be, but— _but I did, I frightened him, I knew somebody had hurt him and I still lost my temper—I shouldn't have done this—I shouldn't have been the one to do this—I should never have been the one to do this—I should have let Gwaine—or Guinevere—anybody but me—anybody would be better than me—_

"I-I'm fine," Merlin said, quietly, and Arthur could hear how his breath trembled, as it left his mouth, "I just miss Gaius." He jerked his chin down in a nod. Like he didn't need to convince Arthur at all, like he only needed to convince himself. "That's it. That's all."

That was a lie. Arthur knew that—God, he could see it in Merlin's face, he could _hear_ it in Merlin's voice, in his words—the idiot was absolute rubbish at lying, couldn't keep a secret to save his life—

—but he did, he did keep a secret, didn't he, from Arthur, at least, and if Gwaine hadn't told him, if Gwaine hadn't laid it all out in front of him, one by one by one, it would still be a secret, wouldn't it, he still wouldn't know, would he, if Gwaine hadn't—if Gwaine hadn't said anything, he would still have no idea, and everything could have gotten so much worse—

And it still _could_. Arthur hadn't gotten the truth out of Merlin, had he, no, he hadn't even come close—

 _I can't get the truth out of Merlin—I can't—I can't do this—it can't be me—I won't be any good at it—I'm not any good at it—I'm only Merlin's master, I'm only Merlin's king—he wouldn't tell his king something he hasn't even told his friends—_

"—he hasn't written," Merlin rambled on, "not a word, and I know he must be busy, but he's usually sent me a letter or two by this time—"

Arthur frowned—this had to be a lie, right? This had to be a lie. Merlin had made it all up, on the spot, right out of his own head—but—but that bit—right there—about the letters—no, no, that couldn't be right, could it? That couldn't—? "Gaius—" Arthur eased himself, hesitantly, back down into his seat, but he never took his eyes off Merlin's face, "—Gaius hasn't written you?"

Merlin shook his head.

Would Merlin lie about something like this? Would Merlin lie about something so serious? He _had_ just made up a million different things right in front of Arthur, spouted it all off without so much as a hesitation—if any of that _got too close to the cookfires_ and _bruised my leg on Gaius' bench_ rubbish turned out to be true, Arthur would eat his own mail—but this was—this was _different_. This was _Gaius_. Would Merlin really go so far as to use Gaius as a cover—?

But if this wasn't a lie—if this was real—if Merlin _hadn't_ actually heard anything from Gaius— _not a word,_ Merlin had said, and God, if that was true—

"Merlin—" Arthur leaned over the table to look his servant full in the face, "—look at me, Merlin, don't—don't lie to me. Tell me the truth, now, tell me honestly, Merlin, have you had any contact with Gaius since he left? At all?"

Merlin frowned. "No. Why—why would I lie about—?"

"I always receive Sir Leon's first report after a week's absence," Arthur settled back in his seat again, but he could already feel how his stomach started to tighten with the fear of it. "I-I thought he was only running a bit late, but—but now—with Gaius, too—"

"Sir Leon never runs late," Merlin said, like he actually thought that might be _helpful,_ or something.

"Yes, _thank you,_ Merlin, _I know_ ," Arthur said, sharply, and he raked his hand roughly through his hair. He could feel his fingers catch in a few of the worse tangles. "If something's happened—" he added, half to himself—he didn't know, really, if he even meant for Merlin to hear it or not, "—if something's happened to them—"

"If something's happened to them, then Leon and Percival are some of the finest knights Camelot's ever seen," Merlin said, in that firm way he had about him, sometimes, when he really wanted Arthur to listen to him. "I mean, Leon has been first knight for God knows how long, and Percival started up that rockfall with his _bare hands._ Do you really think they can't handle themselves?"

God. This should be the other way around. Arthur had _meant_ for this to be the other way around, even, he had meant to sit Merlin down and make him feel better, tell him all the things he needed to hear, help him, for God's sake, just reach out and help him, and instead—well, instead, he had made an absolute prat of himself—he _knew_ somebody had hurt Merlin, he _knew_ somebody had _scared_ Merlin, he _knew_ , and he had _still_ —

"They'll be all right, Arthur," Merlin leaned across the table, this time, "they'll be all right. _Everything_ will be all right."

"You're not—?" No matter how he tried, Arthur couldn't bring himself to believe, not entirely, that unshakable confidence in Merlin's eyes, in Merlin's words. "You're not worried? About _Gaius_?" Everything Merlin had just said, about Leon and Percival at least, was true, undeniably true—as knights of the realm, the men could more than take care of the threats on the roads to Tintagel, but _Gaius_ —

The barest flare of fear flickered over Merlin's face, almost like a ripple amid calm waters, and everything sort of _pinched_ , a bit, everything sort of _crumpled_ —but hardly half a moment later and all the tight, anxious lines around Merlin's mouth, around Merlin's eyes, had smoothed back out to nearly nothing. "You really think Leon and Percival would let something happen to him?"

But Arthur could _hear it_ , this time, that little touch of doubt, just the slightest chink in Merlin's absolute composure— _and why would he lie to me, why would he tell me he's not worried, why would he even bother, why can't he be honest with me if it's something so small_ —? What, did he think if he wasn't worried, _Arthur_ wouldn't be—?

Oh. That was it. Wasn't it? _Jesus Christ_.

Arthur put a hand up to his head and rubbed, halfheartedly, at the pain in his temple. "I-I'll have a messenger ride out at first light tomorrow. Find out what's going on." He shoved his chair back from the table and stood up. "If something _has_ happened, I want to know about it."

"Right," Merlin said, and nodded, a little, "all right." He got to his feet, too, and pushed his chair up against the edge of the table. "Will that be all, then?"

Arthur hesitated—he didn't want to say yes, he didn't want to let Merlin off like that, but all the same, he had to be honest with himself. There wasn't anything he _could_ do. Everything he had tried so far to get the truth out of Merlin had only made it all worse, in the end, and the last thing he wanted was to push Merlin away. He would never get to the bottom of things then.

No, he couldn't do this. He wasn't the right person for this.

Merlin needed a friend for this. Not Arthur.

"Yes," Arthur said, at last, "yes, Merlin, that will be all. Thank you."

Merlin nodded. "Don't forget your lunch, then. You need to eat something."

Arthur rolled his eyes. He supposed Guinevere must have rubbed off on the idiot this morning, but Merlin could be the most insufferable mother-hen sort all on his own— _oh,_ wait a moment, that was—Guinevere, and the Lower Town, and the sorcerer—and the search—Merlin had gone to see Guinevere first thing, he wouldn't know—and he _should_ know about that, surely—

"Wait," Arthur pushed his chair in, too, with a dull thud of wood on wood, "wait, Merlin, wait a moment, there's one more thing."

"I can't muck the stables until it stops snowing, Arthur, don't even _start_ —"

"No," Arthur didn't roll his eyes this time, but it was a close thing, "that's not what I—you'll clean it twice tomorrow, with that attitude, you know, but that's not—" he shook his head. "The search of the Lower Town is already in-progress, but the citadel and the castle are to be included, in effect tomorrow."

"The castle?" Merlin stepped back a bit and raised his eyebrows. "Come off it, Arthur, you don't really think the sorcerer got in _here_ —?"

"I think nothing as of yet, Merlin," Arthur echoed his uncle's earlier words. "But it's just too early in the investigations to rule anything out. We can't allow such a threat to slip through our fingers. _But_ ," he added, heavily, and loudly, because Merlin had already opened up his mouth again—the idiot never did know when to _shut up_ , for God's sake, "we would like to eliminate the least likely places first. The Court Physician's chambers is top of that list."

" _Physician's_ —?" Merlin's face tightened. "You're going to search _Gaius'_ chambers?"

"I know as well as you do," and Arthur _did_ know, "it's a complete waste of time, but I wouldn't feel right if the examinations were not as thorough as possible. I trust Gaius, you know that, but no one can be above suspicion. It would look poorly if I did not take everybody into account. Surely, you can understand that."

Merlin huffed out a heavy breath, but he nodded. "Gaius would never betray you."

"I know." Arthur swallowed. "In any case, Lord Agravaine will be there at dawn to—"

" _Agravaine_?" Merlin said, and too quickly, too sharply. "You mean to tell me _Agravaine_ is meant to conduct the search of Gaius' chambers?" He narrowed his eyes.

" _Lord_ Agravaine. And yes, Merlin. I suggest you make your peace with it." Arthur was no fool—he knew there had to be at least a dozen different sorts of seriously bad blood between the two of them, not least after all those horrid, misguided accusations Merlin had tried to make against Agravaine—but he didn't _care_ anymore, he didn't think he _could_ care if he even tried, really. One day, Merlin was sure to see Agravaine's true loyalties, and even as obstinate as he was, he would have to back down, he would have to admit his wrong, he would have to say he had misjudged the man.

"No."

Arthur snapped his head around to look at Merlin. "What?"

"No." In the light of the sun through the open window, Arthur could see Merlin's jaw clench tight. "I don't want him in Gaius' chambers. In _my_ chambers."

"Don't be such a girl, Merlin," Arthur rolled his eyes—really, he had hoped Merlin might have grown up a bit about all this. "He'll walk in, he'll have a look, he'll walk right back out. That's all."

"He hasn't got the _right_ unless _I_ —!"

"He has _every_ right!" Arthur could hardly believe the words had even left Merlin's mouth at all, actually. Did the man really think—? Did he even understand his place in this at all? "He's acting on my orders, Merlin, the orders of the king, and I'll thank you to remember that."

Merlin pressed his lips together until his mouth had gone thin and white, but he dropped his eyes back down to the floor, and he didn't say another word.

"Lord Agravaine did me a great service," Arthur said, firmly, "when he offered to take over the castle investigations. And I trust you will give him your full cooperation."

Merlin jerked his eyes back up to Arthur's face. "He _offered_?"

"Yes, and don't ask me why, because God knows, he's got more than enough to deal with already." Arthur let out a breath. He had meant everything he had said to his uncle—he didn't want to spread his men out too thin, he didn't want to ask too much of them, and that stretched to Agravaine as well. He would have to see if he couldn't lighten his uncle's workload a bit until they had finished up with the investigations.

Merlin's mouth looked even thinner and whiter this time, as he strode 'round to the side of the bed and started to strip off the rumpled sheets.

"Merlin." Arthur couldn't let him off so easily, so lightly, not after that. To speak ill of a noble, now that was the sort of thing Arthur could let slide, but Agravaine was hardly just _any_ noble. Agravaine was family, his family, his only family, the last shred he had still to call his own, to hold close, and it was time Merlin made his peace with the man.

"I trust you _will_ give him your full cooperation?"

For a long moment, Arthur thought Merlin wouldn't say anything at all—he ripped the sheets from the bed and stuffed them down in the laundry basket and went to get fresh linens from the cabinet before he finally answered.

"Of course, Sire."

* * *

In the time it took for the day to burn down to night, for the sun to slip behind the dark ridges of the distant mountains, for the servants and nobles alike to settle down to sleep, the rabid, frenzied fires of Merlin's fury had cooled down to a sharp sort of logic. He still wanted to shout, still wanted to scream, still wanted to storm into Agravaine's chambers and snap the man's neck, but he knew better, now, he knew he had to hold back, he knew he could not let the rage, hot and thick as the blood in his veins, carry him through.

But _how_ to do it— _how_ to stop Agravaine, how to make sure his secret stayed secret, how to find out what had really happened to Gaius and Leon and Percival on the road to Tintagel—

 _That_ was the bit of it all he still needed to work out.

Outright opposition had never done him any good—every time he had tried to challenge Agravaine, every time he had tried to confront or resist, reveal the man's treacheries and betrayals, Agravaine had always, somehow, known it, and he had always had some sort of trick up his sleeve, some way to come out on top, some way to stay one step ahead of it all, some way to do better, some way to _be_ better, and it would be the same this time, it would all be the same—no matter what Merlin did, no matter what he said, no matter the way he tried to win, he would never—he would never really—

God, he couldn't even find it in him to say no every time Agravaine touched him, every time Agravaine undressed him, every time Agravaine—he couldn't even win his body back from Agravaine, he couldn't even claim the skin he had been stuck in as his own anymore, what had ever made him think he could really—?

Merlin snapped to a stop a second before he pushed down the handle of Gaius' door.

That was—that was it, wasn't it? That was what he—oh, God, no, he couldn't—he couldn't really—

—and why not, why not, what would be so bad about it, really, he had already done it a hundred times before, it wasn't like this would be the first—it wasn't like he had never—it wasn't like he still had anything left to lose if he—if he did—

Merlin dropped his hand, and he turned, sharply, on his heel, to go back the way he had come.

He could still fix this. He still had a chance to _fix this_.

And by God, he was going to _take it_.

* * *

Merlin made his way to Agravaine's chambers as quick as he could— _to catch him before he can fall asleep_ , that was what Merlin would say, that was what he would tell himself, if he had to, _I have to catch him before he can fall asleep,_ but his hands trembled at his sides and his heart pounded away in his chest so hard, it _hurt_ , and he knew if he didn't get there soon, he would run, he would whirl around and he would just run—anywhere, nowhere, it didn't matter, he didn't care, just so long as he never had to look Agravaine in the face again—

Merlin lifted his shaking hand up and tapped his knuckles lightly on Agravaine's door.

There. That was it. He had done it. No going back now, no going back, he wasn't going to run, he was _not going to run—_

The door opened, and Agravaine, dark cloak swinging limply off one shoulder, stood and stared at him in the entranceway. "Merlin?" He blinked and leaned up off the wall. His mouth edged down into a frown. "An unexpected pleasure. What brings you here at this hour?"

Merlin let out a shaky, quivering breath. He pulled his lips up in a smile. He could do this. _He could do this._ "Aren't you going to let me in?"

Agravaine pulled the door wide and stepped back without a hesitation, but the wrinkle in his brow didn't smooth out. "Is something wrong? Has Arthur sent you?"

"No." Merlin shook his head and stepped inside. "No. Nothing's wrong." He didn't know where to go from here. It had taken everything he had left in him just to get here in the first place, and now, to think of what lay ahead—his stomach churned until he could swear he would be sick, but he had—he had to do this. He _had to_.

Agravaine pushed the door back in its thick frame, and turned to face Merlin. "I'm afraid I don't—"

Merlin kissed him. He had to do it, right then, straightaway, he couldn't put it off another moment, or he would back out of it all, he would run, he would duck his head and murmur some excuse, and he would _leave_ , and he couldn't do that, he couldn't do that, _he could not let himself do that_.

So Merlin kissed Agravaine, as hard as he could, and he couldn't—he couldn't stop, he couldn't pull back, he couldn't let up, because he knew if he did, he knew if he broke off, even to breathe, he would still find a way out of it, find a way to end it here, and he couldn't—he _couldn't_ —he reached, blindly, around behind Agravaine's back, until his fingers brushed the cold metal clasp of the cloak, and he unlatched it, and let the thick cloth fall down to the floor in a dark heap.

"What—?" Agravaine murmured, half into Merlin's mouth. "What are you doing?"

Merlin kissed, lightly, down the line of Agravaine's jaw—he fumbled, a little, in the dark, to find and pop open the first few buttons on Agravaine's long purple tunic. "Anything—" he whispered, a bit breathlessly, his lips still pressed to the warm skin, "—anything you want."

* * *

 **Notes: OH MAN Y'ALL, I'm SO SORRY this one got so long ? why didn't anyone stop me ? why didn't anyone shut me up ? i PROMISED i wouldn't have another chapter as long as the legendary ch4, but i just ? couldn't find ? a good place ? to end it ? i weep. i'm so sorry. I'm pretty pumped this chapter is finally OUT HERE, though. IN THE GREAT BIG WORLD. i've had this one in my head for a real hot sec - almost since the story began, actually! we're finally gettin to the good stuff, y'all. the PURE and RAW and UNFILTERED whump. i'm PUMPED and HERE FOR THAT!**

 **oh also this has literally nothing to do with this fic at all but i started a new blog ((aquestionthatsneverbeenposed)) and it's an ask/RP blog for Merlin. due to personal reasons i kinda ditched the rp scene for a hot sec there, but i really missed it, and wanted to come back to it so i decided to try my hand at Merlin. i don't think i'm totally horrendous ! anyways yeah. thanks SO MUCH to everybody who stopped by (as usual) your support and encouragement means the absolute WORLD to me !**


	11. Tried to Hold These Secrets Inside Me

"I sat alone, in bed 'til the morning,

I'm crying,

They're coming for me.

And I tried to hold,

These secrets inside me,

My mind's like a deadly disease."

\- _Control_ , Halsey

* * *

Merlin didn't look, didn't _let_ himself look, at the bruises and the marks and the stains Agravaine had left all over him tonight—he knew better than to look, he knew better than to think he _could_ look, he knew better than to think his hands wouldn't shake, his stomach wouldn't twist, the back of his throat wouldn't burn with a hot flood of sour bile, so he only pulled the rough cloth of his trousers up over his legs. His flesh prickled, all over, with little bumps, from the icy air of the vast chamber, but he could swear his skin was on fire with the heavy weight of Agravaine's eyes all over him— _why he is looking at me, why is he looking at me, stop it, stop looking at me, what did I do, what did I do to make him look—?_

Merlin slipped through the door, and out into the corridor, into the dark and the quiet of the long, empty hall.

It would be worth it. It would all be worth it in the end. He had to believe that, he _had_ to believe it would be worth it, he had to believe, one day, all of this would mean something, all of this would matter, all of this would all work out for the better, for the best, and he _had_ to believe that. He _had_ to.

When he had carried his secret all the way to his grave, all the way to the end, when he could let it go, take it off, put it down—God, just _put it down_ , just once, even for a moment—where no one could ever find it, and no one could ever be hurt by it, and maybe he would finally know what it was like to _breathe_ without the weight of all his lies on his chest, and it would be worth it, then, it would be worth it, everything would be worth it.

It would all be worth it in the end.

Merlin's heart crashed, louder than thunder, inside of him, too fast, too frantic, too frenzied, and the blood pounded, hard and heavy as a drum, in his ears, and he glanced back over his shoulder a hundred thousand times in a minute all the way out of the castle—all the way out of the city, all the way into the black shadows of the night, all the way into the dark and rustling trees of the wood, even, and all the tight knots of tension inside him still wouldn't break loose, _couldn't_ break loose, even then. He had made a mistake last night in the Lower Town—he had dropped his guard, he had relaxed, he had thought he was safe, he had _told himself_ he was safe, he had told himself no one would see him, no one would ever see him, he had done it a hundred times before and no one had ever seen him, no one had ever seen him—

—but he would never, _ever_ make that mistake again.

He would never tell himself he was safe again.

Merlin stumbled, finally, half-frozen, into the small, snowy glade, and stopped hardly half a moment to get his breath back before he tipped his head up and ripped the harsh, hoarse call of the dragon out of his throat. The sound of it cut through the frigid silence of the winter's night sharp as a sword and loud as a scream—cut through the quiet creak of the bare branches, heavy with the sleet and slush, cut through the hard crunch of ice and dead leaves under his boots, cut through the shaky gasp of his own breath in and out of his half-open mouth—and the echoes thrummed in his chest, in his head, in his veins.

Every few moments, Merlin stamped or shuffled his feet in the snow to keep out the cold, to stop it before it could settle down deep in his bones, and cling to him tighter than his own tunic, tighter than his own skin, and he blinked to keep the flakes out of his eyes, but he stayed as still as he could, and stared up into the dark skies, until, at last, the thump of immense, powerful wings filled his ears, and Kilgharrah landed in front of him.

Little patches of ice and snow stuck to the dragon's green-gold scales in places. "I have to confess," he rumbled out, very stiffly, "I had hoped you would not summon me until the elements were more _agreeable_."

"Sorry," Merlin said—he didn't actually _mean_ to say it, he didn't actually _want_ to say it, even, but Kilgharrah always had a way to make him feel like he ought to apologize—and tacked on, quickly, "I-I have a favor to ask."

"So I concluded," Kilgharrah said, still very sullen. "What is it you seek from me?"

"Gaius, Leon, and Percival went to Tintagel a few weeks ago, to investigate a strange illness there," Merlin started in at once—he didn't want to be out here any longer than Kilgharrah did, and Goddess knew he still had a lot to do when he finally got back. "But no one's heard a word from them since. Arthur thinks they ran into some sort of trouble on the road."

"You disagree." It wasn't a question, not really.

But Merlin shook his head anyway. "Morgana's man was the one to map their route."

"Morgana's man?" Kilgharrah echoed, in his sharpest tone, and he narrowed his golden eyes down to slits. "You _allowed_ this?"

"Well, I didn't have very much choice!" Merlin argued. "He's a lord of the court, _and_ Arthur's uncle! What was I _supposed_ to—?"

"The young Pendragon's uncle?" Kilgharrah broke in. He rumbled, again, in the back of his throat. "The Lord Agravaine?"

Merlin swallowed, a little too hard, and jerked his chin down in a half-nod. One day, he would hear the name, and his hands wouldn't shake, and he wouldn't feel a cold shudder crawl down his spine, but just now, _one day_ sounded very, very far away.

"Is the young Pendragon aware of this man's true allegiance?" Kilgharrah demanded.

Merlin shook his head again. "I tried to warn him." His throat pulled tight, suddenly, and he had to look away, down into the dirty snow under his powder-flecked boots. "But he—" Merlin bit down, hard, on his bottom lip, "—he didn't believe me." _And I said terrible things to him, awful things, I said—_

Another rumble. "Already, you have allowed this man to ingrain himself too deeply within Arthur's heart."

 _I tried,_ Merlin wanted to say, _I tried to tell Arthur, I did my best,_ but that wasn't true, was it? Not really. He had just let it happen, all of it, everything, every last bit, every last little piece, every bad thing, it all came back to him in the end, didn't it, everything came right back 'round to him again, in a circle, in a hoop, just like the Lower Town.

Because he wasn't strong enough to stand up to Agravaine.

Because he was _rotten_.

"I know," Merlin said, instead of a fight, and he shivered in a harsh and bitter blast of winter wind, and he tugged his jacket tighter around him. "I know."

Maybe Kilgharrah could hear his exhaustion in his words, or maybe he could sense it, feel it, even, in the link between them, because the dragon's next rumble sounded gentler, softer, than all the ones before. "Young warlock," he leaned his long neck down a bit, to look at Merlin, "what is this favor you ask of me?"

Merlin hesitated—no doubt Kilgharrah would put up a real fight over this, Goddess knew he'd go on and on and on with his usual _I am not a servant, Merlin, and I am most certainly not_ your _servant,_ but his friends' safety mattered far more, in this moment, than an old dragon's pride. "Could you just—?" He tipped his head up a little higher. "Could you just look for them? Gaius and Leon and Percival? See if they're really all right, or if—" he swallowed, "—if Morgana—"

"That is not a favor," Kilgharrah said, rather petulantly. "That is an _errand_."

"Well, I can't exactly saddle up and go see for myself!" Merlin pointed out, maybe more than a little bit indignantly. "I can't leave Camelot that long. Arthur wouldn't last _ten seconds_ without me."

Kilgharrah rumbled again, and it certainly wasn't gentle or soft, but he bowed his enormous, scaly head at Merlin by the barest fraction. "Very well, young warlock," he said, with an air of great reluctance. "I shall embark upon this errand."

"Thank you." Merlin dipped his chin down a little in return.

Kilgharrah almost seemed to hesitate, then—well, as much as Kilgharrah _could_ hesitate, anyway, Merlin had never seen him so irresolute, so tentative, so uncertain. Like he didn't know what to do with himself, except he _always_ knew what to do with himself. "Young warlock," Kilgharrah said, at last, and very quietly, so quietly, it could be the soft shift of fallen snow in the trees, the steady, dull murmur of the wind, "something troubles you."

"What?" Merlin snapped his head up, and his heart crashed like thunder again, too fast, too frantic, too frenzied— _does he know? Does he know what happened, does he know the truth, does he know that Agravaine knows, does he know what happened, does he know how I let it happen, how I didn't fight it, how I just let—? Can he feel it? Can he sense it? Can he see it in my head? Does he know what I did? Does he know what I've done? Does he know I'm filthy, does he know I'm rotten, does he know I'm—?_

But Kilgharrah only blinked his great golden eyes. "You do not look well." He tilted his vast, horned head a bit. "What has happened?"

Merlin's heart thudded, too hard, too fast, in his chest, a furious break and batter at his ribs, but _he doesn't know, he doesn't know, he doesn't know, does he—?_

"Merlin?"

"No," Merlin blurted, and too quick, too sharp, and his stomach tossed and turned and twisted, "no, nothing—nothing has happened, nothing's happened." He swallowed. "Everything's fine. Everything is fine."

Maybe, if he only said it loud enough, often enough, he could finally make it true.

* * *

The sun had only barely pulled its pale light over the silent, snowy trees when Merlin finally dragged himself back out of the frozen wood, numb and exhausted—God, _so exhausted_ , he was _so exhausted_ , his mind ran 'round and 'round in circles and he couldn't think straight, and it took everything he had inside him just to put one foot in front of the other, and he almost lay down in the snow and slept, out there under the open grey sky, out there in the cold, but he _didn't_ , he knew he couldn't, he knew he shouldn't, and he didn't. He only stumbled on through the Lower Town—still dark and empty, still vacant roads and shuttered shops and blank windows, and he didn't _care_ anymore, he didn't care at all, he didn't care about any of it, and he didn't care how filthy and rotten he felt, how filthy and rotten he knew he was—and he was in front of Gaius' door, then, all of a sudden, all at once, he was in front of Gaius' door, and he didn't know how he had gotten there at all.

Merlin reached out a pale, shaky hand to push open the door and let himself in—and he could see it, he could see the shudders jolting through his palms, he could see the short, sharp tremors, he could see the little lurches and jerks and spasms, but he couldn't feel them very much at all, _isn't that odd, isn't that funny_ —and he stepped inside, he stepped around all the books and bottles and overcluttered tables, and he stepped up the stairs and he stepped into his room and—

—oh—

—his blanket, all balled up, nothing but a thin and tattered and tangled heap on the cold floor and the pillow, behind the bed, in a heavy cloud of thick grey dust—

— _you're beautiful—absolutely divine_ —

—and stains and streaks all down the sheets and—

— _can't you take a compliment_ —

—the shaking had started up again, in his hands, in his legs, he couldn't hold himself up anymore, and he had to grab onto the wall so he didn't hit the ground—

— _you look beautiful when you writhe naked on silk sheets_ —

—he couldn't let go of the wall, he couldn't get back up again, he couldn't get back up again, and he knew he needed to get back up again, he knew he needed to do it, he knew he _had_ to do it, but the world had started to spin all around him, faster and faster every moment, and his knees buckled and his stomach rolled and his throat pulled so tight, he couldn't swallow, he couldn't even breathe—

— _lovely blue bed-me eyes—_

And Merlin turned his head, and ripped open his mouth, and hot, sour sick spilled out and onto the floor, and his stomach twisted up tighter and tighter with every retch, and he crashed to the ground, too hard, too _heavy_ , beside the puddle of his own bile, and tears pricked and stung at the backs of his eyes. He pulled his knees up to his chest, but his legs still trembled against the thin, worn cloth of his tunic—and his hands still trembled, palms pressed, hard as he could stand it, to the cold floor, and his breath still trembled, in and out of his open mouth, and the taste of the sick still burned at the back of his throat—

Downstairs, the door burst open.

"Merlin?"

Merlin jerked, sharply, at the sound of the shout at the bottom of the stairs, at the sound of his own name in the room below—at the sound of Agravaine's voice, but _why is he here, why is he here, what is he doing, what does he want, what does he think—?_

 _Tomorrow at dawn,_ Arthur had said, _Lord Agravaine will be there to—_

No. Merlin's insides turned to ice. No, that wasn't right. That couldn't be right. That couldn't be true. He knew it. He knew it couldn't be right, he knew it couldn't be true, not after last night, not after he had let—

 _I didn't say no, I never said no, I let it happen, I lay there and I let it happen, I let him do it, I let him do all of it, everything, and that was what he wanted, wasn't it, that was what he wanted, that was all he wanted, and isn't he happy now, isn't he satisfied yet, won't he call it off now, won't he put a stop to it now, he's gotten what he wanted, he'll stop it now, he has to stop it now,_ but Merlin jerked up off the floor anyway, and he rushed across the room, and he didn't look at the bed, he didn't look at the blanket, he didn't look at the pillow, he didn't look at the sheets, he didn't think about the last time he had lain in that bed, not for a second, not for a single goddamned second.

He wrenched back the loose floorboard, and he didn't—he didn't really think about it, he didn't really need to think about it, one moment his spellbook stared back at him, cracked leather and stained, yellowed pages and rusted metal clasps, and then it was gone. He slipped his hand down into the dark gap—he could still feel it, there, under his fingers, but he couldn't see it, and _that's all that matters, that's the only thing that matters, so long as no one can see it, so long as no one can ever, ever see it_ —

"Merlin?"

Merlin flinched—every muscle in his body tensed up, his every limb locked tight, his every tendon pulled taut, and it took him nearly a full minute to relax again, and _God, he's not even up here yet, he's not even in the room yet, he's still all the way down there, he's not even gone up the stairs yet, he just called my name, that's it, that's all._ Merlin swallowed, hard, scrubbed a tired hand down his face, and sat back heavily on his heels. He had to let it happen now, let it go, just let the search carry on. He had done everything he could and—

—and there was something under the bed.

Well, actually, there was a lot of something under the bed, maybe lots of little somethings, or maybe just one big something, but—but that didn't make sense, he didn't put things under his bed, he never put things under his bed, so there shouldn't be—there really shouldn't be—

Merlin crawled over to the bed—he pushed the blanket out of his way, up against the wall, and shoved the stained sheets back up onto the thin pallet, and he didn't let himself think about it, he did not let himself think about the last time he had lain in that bed—and he plunged a hand down into the black. His fingers only barely, briefly brushed over cold, smooth metal, and his magic screamed, inside him, wrenched and writhed in his chest, in his veins, under his skin, like a wolf, like a wild thing, and he scrambled back on blind instinct, on reflex—

— _what is that—?_

Merlin didn't want to look. He didn't want to know, anymore, if it was a lot of something or lots of little somethings or just one big something, he just wanted to leave it there, all of it, he didn't care what it was, he didn't care, he didn't ever want to feel like that again, like his magic died inside him, but— _if it's dark magic, if it's a threat to Camelot, if it's something Morgana's planted, I need to know, I need to know what she's up to_ —with a firm, forceful yank, he dragged it back out from under the bed.

It turned out to be a lot of little somethings—a beautiful mirror edged in richest, brightest gold, and a smooth, shiny white crystal, sharp and pointed on its bottom but flat and wide and rounded at the top, and a flood of radiant gold broke through the sparkling ivory the moment he laid his hand on it. And a rough wooden box, there was a rough wooden box, too, old and a bit crumbly at the corners, like the box Alice had—a manticore portal, and a little shudder trailed down Merlin's spine, to feel the sick power in it, to know he held another in his hands—but the last of the somethings, a large, thick ring of utterly solid iron, big enough to go all the way around a lady's wrist, maybe big enough to go all the way around a lady's neck—that was the worst, that was the awful thing he had felt, the one that had made his magic scream, the one that had made his magic wrench and writhe inside him.

It made Merlin sick just to look at it, just to touch it, just to feel it on his skin— _this is wrong, this is wrong, I don't know what it is, but I know it's wrong_ —he could feel the magic in the box, in the mirror, in the crystal, but he couldn't feel _anything_ off the ring, no matter how he pushed and shoved his own power at it, into it, that just made it all feel worse, that just made his magic _ache_ in a harsh, heavy way he couldn't explain—

"Merlin?" Agravaine stood in the narrow entranceway, thick black brows arched up, and a gleam of triumph in his dark eyes.

And, suddenly, Merlin _knew_.

And he didn't need Agravaine to say it, he didn't need Agravaine to tell him, because he _knew_ , in a way he couldn't put into words, he knew, it all made sense now, didn't it, all of it, everything, it all made a sick sort of sense now, didn't it? Everything made sense now.

That night he had come home, and he had found Agravaine—the night Agravaine had waited for him, stayed for him, had pulled up Gaius' chair and settled in next to the hearth and waited for him and said _where were you_ and _let me see you pleasure yourself_ —the night Merlin had stayed out so late in the Lower Town—the night everybody had seen him—the night he had brought so much pain and panic down on so many people—Agravaine had done it then. Agravaine had done it, then, Agravaine must have done it then, and Merlin had never known, he had never thought about it, he had never seen it, he had never figured it out, he had never even _tried_ , really, because he had thought Agravaine wanted _him_ , not—he had thought Agravaine had _wanted him_ —

Sir Ector pushed into the room—past all the rest of the knights in a thick cluster on the stairs outside, and he pushed past Agravaine, even, past the open door—and in hardly half a moment, his old, lined face turned as white as bleached bone, and over his broad, armored shoulder, Merlin could see the others start up the steps and peek curiously past him into the room.

"It was you," Agravaine said, but a smile still played around the edges of his mouth, "it was you, and you—you've been at court, all this time, at Arthur's side—"

—and it was that night, that first night, all over again, it was that night in Agravaine's bedchamber, with Arthur's coronation outside, Arthur's coronation in the Great Hall, so big and loud he could still hear it, even all the way in Agravaine's rooms, and how many times had he hoped Arthur might hear him, or anyone might hear him, hear him and come and find him and—and _save_ him—

"—how you've managed to deceive him, Merlin—"

— _if I am to keep your secret, I do deserve some form of recompense,_ and _pretty little thing like you,_ and _hush, now, Merlin, there's no need for all that noise_ —

"—clearly magical—"

"—evidence is undeniable—"

"—doesn't make any sense—"

"—why would _anyone_ —?"

Merlin knew he needed to listen—accusations and questions and condemnations all swirled and surged up around and around and around him, hard and heavy as a storm, and he knew he needed to listen, he knew he needed to hear it, he knew it was important, he knew it mattered, but everything was a thousand miles away from him, or maybe he was a thousand miles away from everything or maybe a thousand miles had never been real at all or maybe he had never been real at all—

—a hand, warm and firm and just above his elbow, grabbed at him, tugged at him, pulled at him—

Merlin's nerves snapped, all at once, into a hundred thousand sharp and brittle shards, and he jerked back, and wild, reckless fury flooded him like an ocean, flooded him like a sea. "Don't touch me!" He nearly _screamed_ it, really, out through his teeth, and he could feel his lips pull back in a snarl the longer he looked into Agravaine's horrid, self-satisfied face, his cold, dark eyes. "Don't fucking touch me! Keep your fucking hands off me!"

" _Merlin!"_ Sir Ector rushed forward in a dizzy swirl of silver mail and scarlet cloak, and Sir Ector _grabbed_ him, locked firm, burly arms 'round him, and dragged him, like an animal, like a _dog_ —

"No, _let me go_!" Merlin knew better than to think he would win. Even for a second, he knew better than to think he would win—Sir Ector was a knight, and a damn good one, at that, with several stones' worth of muscle and armor on Merlin, but he couldn't—he couldn't _stop_ , he just couldn't stop, he just needed everything to go away, to go a hundred thousand miles away. "Let me go! Don't touch me!"

Sir Ector's strong, broad fingers tightened and tensed around his wrists, and he had only half a moment to wince, before the knight twisted his arm up behind his back with a harsh wrench of his shoulder, and Merlin doubled over with a soft, sharp gasp.

"Gather his things," Agravaine barked out at the rest of the knights, and his mouth settled in a small, confident smile. "We're taking him to the king."

* * *

The search of the Lower Town wouldn't start for a long while yet—even at the absolute earliest, the wait would still last well over an hour—but Arthur had already dressed himself, he had already tugged on his tunic and a fresh pair of breeches, he had already buckled on his armor, strapped on his sword, and clasped his cloak firmly at the throat, because how the hell was he supposed to stay all wrapped up in his sheets and _know_ , every second, every breath, the sorcerer was still out there, somewhere, in the Lower Town, in the citadel, in the _castle_ , even, and how the hell was he supposed to sleep at all, how the hell was he even supposed to shut his eyes and not think about the sorcerer, about the curse cast over his kingdom, about the terror and pain of his people?

 _Suppose I should try and get a bit of work in,_ Arthur thought, very unenthusiastically, _read over a few of the records and reports piled up on the table, speak to Lord Agravaine and see if he's started his own search of the castle yet—_

The door burst open with a crash like thunder, and Lord Agravaine barreled into the bedchamber like a storm. His dark eyes had narrowed down to thin slits in his furious face, brows all pinched up in a harsh scowl, and a sea of silver mail and scarlet cloaks—knights— flooded in behind him. Sir Ector was the last of the soldiers, and he—

—and he dragged Merlin along behind him.

Merlin stumbled and tripped over his own boots at least a few dozen times in hardly half a moment, his eyes wide—no, _enormous_ —in his thin and nervous face, with dark shadows, stark as bruises, underneath, and every time he faltered or fell, Sir Ector only snatched him up by his arm, or his scarf, even, and yanked him on again.

"Sir Ector," Arthur said, sharply, and he pushed past Lord Agravaine, past all the rest of the knights, to get to the pair of them, " _what_ is the meaning of this? Take your hands off him." Maybe he should turn a blind eye, let it alone, let it happen, let Sir Ector do as he wished, but it just didn't sit right with him, the way the knight touched Merlin, the way he jerked Merlin, roughly, into the room, the way he led Merlin like a man might lead a dog.

"I cannot, Sire," Sir Ector only tightened his hold on Merlin, his knuckles white around Merlin's thin wrists, "not whilst he still presents such a danger to you."

"Danger to me?" Arthur echoed, half to make sure he had heard it right—how could Merlin, loyal to a fault and absolute rubbish with a sword Merlin ever be dangerous?— and he almost laughed, if only Sir Ector didn't look so serious about it. "That's ridiculous. Look at him, Merlin's hardly a danger to anyone, and certainly not to me. Let him go, and stop all this nonsense, that's an order."

"Sire," but Agravaine, all the tired lines in his face pulled taut, pushed himself firmly in front of Merlin and Sir Ector, "there's something you must know. This morning, we commenced our search of the castle in the Court Physician's chambers."

Arthur swallowed back a sigh and nodded—ridiculous as all of this sounded, and ridiculous as all of this would all undoubtedly turn out to be, it wouldn't be right to turn Lord Agravaine away if he didn't at least take a moment to listen. His uncle had never steered him wrong before, after all, and God knew Merlin had put up such a stubborn fuss about the search, too, so maybe that was it, maybe that was what had happened, maybe that was all that had happened, Merlin had run his mouth, Merlin had resisted or refused, yes, that would be just like him, actually, never could stand down for anything, could he?

"In the course of this search, I discovered, in Merlin's personal chambers, artifacts we believe to be of great magical power and importance."

Arthur's insides jolted, and he snapped his eyes back on Lord Agravaine. "Great magical power and importance?" But the moment the words fell from his mouth, he knew it wasn't right, he knew it _couldn't_ be right. Merlin was terrified of magic, absolutely bloody terrified, always got all tense and pale and quiet every time the talk turned to sorcery, always closed up quicker and tighter than a clam every time anybody dared to even whisper the word within the walls of Camelot—God, if _Merlin_ ever decided to take up _magic_ , of all things, well, Arthur would hand his crown off to Sir Gwaine and take over as court jester right this moment.

But he only looked, expectantly at his uncle. "Well," he raised his eyebrows, "where are these artifacts, then? Might I see them?"

"My Lord," Sir Dinadan dropped down in a hurried bow, and placed a small, half-rotten wooden box, a broad, round circle of thick, inflexible iron, and a mirror, edges all in gold, atop Arthur's cluttered desk, amid all the papers and quills and inkwells.

Arthur blinked, and very nearly rubbed at his eyes to make absolutely certain this was real. A pathetic little box, a simple silver hoop, and an ornate mirror? The only real mystery here was that last bit—with the way Merlin looked, and _dressed_ , come to that, Arthur had started to think the man didn't know how to use a mirror. A heavy sigh slipped out of Arthur's mouth, hard as he tried to stop it, and he raked a hand down the side of his face before he looked back at his uncle. "Lord Agravaine," he said, flatly, "I'm sorry, but I really think there's been a misunderstanding here. Merlin is _not_ a sorcerer."

"There is _no_ misunderstanding here, my Lord," Agravaine snapped, and his dark eyes narrowed back down to fiery slits again. "His _trove_ ," he nearly snarled the word, "held many other _treasures_ as well." He stormed forward and ripped open his own clenched, white-knuckled fist to show a small, white crystal in his smooth, broad palm.

Arthur wrinkled his brow— _yes_ , crystals were common conduits for sorcery, certainly, he knew that, but did his uncle really believe some glittery pebble should condemn Merlin? "Lord Agravaine," he shook his head, "whatever this is, it is simply not evidence enough to—"

"Sire," a frown settled on Agravaine's lips, "do you not know what this _is_?"

Arthur blinked. "A pretty rock Merlin picked up in the woods one day?" He half-glanced over at his servant, except Merlin wouldn't look at him.

"Your father used this many times, in the early days of The Great Purge," Agravaine said. "It can sense the magic inside even—especially—when we cannot. If a sorcerer touches it, the white will turn to gold." He held the crystal out to Arthur.

Arthur took it, and turned it over and over in his fingers. This, here, sounded exactly like the sort of thing his father would do, and he knew Agravaine too well now to think the man would ever—could ever—lie to him. Except. "Why didn't he use it all the time, then? Why did he stop?" The crystal could have saved hundreds of thousands of innocents accused of sorcery.

"Eventually," Agravaine said on a sigh, "he concluded it was too close to sorcery for comfort, and he locked it away in the vaults with all other confiscated magical objects from that time."

"The vaults?" Arthur tore his eyes from the crystal to glance at his uncle. "If my father locked it in the vaults, how did—?" He turned to Merlin. "How did _you_ —?"

Merlin shook his head, his pale lips pressed together into a thin, tight line, and for a long moment, Arthur could swear he wouldn't say anything, he wouldn't speak at all, but then he opened his mouth-the first time he had opened his mouth since Sir Ector had dragged him into the chamber. "I-I didn't."

"Right." Arthur nodded. He believed Merlin. Of course he believed Merlin, the man may be an absolute idiot, but he had never lied to Arthur before, at least not about big things, serious things, like magic, and why on earth would he start now? "Right. And you're sure you found it in his chambers, Lord Agravaine?"

"Sire, this is preposterous," Agravaine huffed, "surely, you can see his attempts to beguile you, even now! All these years, he has woven a web of deceptions and enchantments about you, but you must believe it no longer!"

"That's enough." Arthur handed the crystal back to Agravaine. "Merlin has lived here in Camelot six years now. If he truly intended any harm to this kingdom, or her inhabitants, would he not already have acted on it?"

"He has poisoned your mind, Arthur!" Agravaine pushed the crystal right back at him. "Don't tell me you do not see it!"

"I said _that's enough_ ," Arthur curled his fingers around the cold, heavy stone, "and I will thank you to let the matter rest, Lord Agravaine. Continue the castle searches. Merlin is not the sorcerer we seek."

For half a moment, Arthur really believed Agravaine might shout at him, scream at him, strike him, even, grab him by the shoulders and _shake_ him, and Arthur tensed on blind instinct, one hand already halfway to the silver hilt of his sword—

—and the moment ended, and Agravaine was only Agravaine again.

"My Lord," Agravaine dipped his head down in a little bow, and clasped his hands behind his back, "there is a very simple way to settle this matter once and for all."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "What do you suggest, Lord Agravaine?"

"If Merlin is truly, as you say, not the sorcerer we seek," Agravaine's dark eyes flicked briefly over to Merlin, "he only needs to touch the crystal to prove it." He tipped his head at the stone in Arthur's hand.

Oh. Yes. That was right. Wasn't it? Except Arthur didn't _want_ to use the crystal, he didn't want to use anything his father had called "too close to sorcery", he didn't want to use anything tainted or tarnished with the touch of magic. He glanced up at Merlin—

—and Merlin's whole face had turned white as snow, white as bone, and he pressed his lips together, his mouth a thin, pinched line—

 _But that's not right, that's not right, Merlin hates magic, Merlin's terrified of magic_ and "Merlin," Arthur said, and sharply, too sharply, and he stepped forward, and he held out the crystal, "take it. Let him go so he can take it," he told Sir Ector, firmly, "let go of his arms so he can take it."

"A-Arthur—" Merlin half-gasped out his name, weak and hoarse and breathless, "Arthur, please, I-I don't—"

Sir Ector let Merlin go, and edged back toward the bed.

"—A-Arthur—"

" _Take it."_ Arthur practically pushed the crystal into Merlin's limp, shaky hands. _It's not going to do anything, it's absolutely not going to do a damn thing, because Merlin's not a sorcerer, Merlin's not a sorcerer, he's terrified of magic and he would never take up magic, he would never betray me like that._ "Take it, _goddamn it,_ Merlin, just take it!"

Merlin reached out a hand.

He took it.

And the crystal turned to gold.

Arthur snapped his eyes shut. _No._ That was the absolute first thing in his mind, the _only_ thing in his mind, and it stuck, and clung, like syrup, like tar, to the inside of his head, it stuck and it ran 'round in circles, it ran 'round in loops, over and over again, until he couldn't think past it, until he couldn't think at all, and a hundred thousand million reasons lived and died in his brain—the crystal had it wrong or the crystal was broken or this was a joke or this was a dream or this was a trick of the light, because Merlin _hated_ magic, he was terrified of magic, absolutely _terrified_ , he would _never_ take up magic, hell, he could hardly _talk_ about magic, remember, how he went all tense and pale and quiet, how he closed up quicker and tighter than a clam, remember that, and if he ever got it in his head to do it, to try, he would likely die of pure fright before he could even stammer out his first spell. Because he was absolutely terrified of magic. And that was that.

Merlin didn't have magic.

Merlin _couldn't_ have magic, even, it didn't make any sense, it just didn't make any sense, it didn't _fit_ , he didn't look like a sorcerer, he didn't act like a sorcerer, and he certainly didn't _fight_ like a sorcerer—God knew he was absolute rubbish in a battle, actually, he always sort of crawled 'round on the ground or cowered behind trees until it was all over, and that wasn't the way a sorcerer would do it, that was not the way any sorcerer in the world would do it. Because if he had magic—if Merlin really had magic—he would fight, and he would be good at it. He would like it, even, he would want it, he would want the violence and the bloodshed, he would _like_ it, he would _want_ it, and God knew Merlin didn't like it, he didn't want it. God knew Merlin was an absolute girl about things like that, actually, always said Arthur didn't need to shoot the sweet little rabbit or the lovely doe, and also, he ruffled his mare's mane and called her _good girl_ and spoiled her with apples and carrots every time he had a chance, and sorcerers didn't _do_ that, sorcerers didn't care about mares or horses or animals or any life at all except their own. Right?

And sorcerers certainly didn't fetch meals or polish armor or pour baths, sorcerers weren't supposed to do any of that, sorcerers couldn't be _trusted_ to do any of that, because sorcerers would poison the meals, curse the armor, mix acid in with the bathwater, and Merlin had _never_ done any of that, he had never even tried, he had never hurt Arthur, never messed with his food or his mail or his wash, he would _never_ hurt Arthur, not ever, so Merlin didn't have magic, Merlin _couldn't_ have magic, and that was just the end of it.

Right?

But when Arthur finally cracked his eyes open again, the crystal still burned and blazed in Merlin's palm with a bright and brilliant fire.

And it didn't make any sense.

It didn't make any sense _at all._

Because _Merlin couldn't have magic_.

"It's—it's broken," Arthur said at once, except his stomach still twisted up and pulled tight into a hundred thousand little knots because _what if it's not, what if it's not broken, what if he's really got magic,_ but he didn't, he didn't, Merlin didn't have magic, Merlin couldn't have magic. "The—the crystal, it's broken, it's wrong, it's—it's not—"

"Sire," a heavy breath tumbled from Agravaine's open lips, "I assure you, the crystal is in perfect condition. Its judgments remain accurate so long as the crystal itself remains whole."

" _It's broken,"_ Arthur said, again, and stronger this time, louder, firmer, sharper, but he never looked away from Merlin, he didn't think he could look away from Merlin if he _tried_ , "it's just—it's just broken, that's it, that's all, Merlin's not—" hedidn't have magic, he _couldn't_ have magic, _"—_ he's not—I would _know_ if my servant was—"

"You recall, Sire," Agravaine said, softly, "it did not turn to gold at your touch. Nor mine."

"—no—" Arthur shook his head again, "—no, that's not—"

Merlin's hand tightened around the golden stone—and was it a trick of the light, was it _really_ a trick of the light or did it—did it mean—did it really mean—? Was the crystal wrong, fake, broken, or had it just done what Agravaine had said it would do, seen the magic, sensed the magic, when the whole world _couldn't_? Arthur had held it, and it hadn't changed, and Agravaine had held it, and it hadn't changed, and could Merlin really— _could Merlin really have—?_

"I would know," Arthur echoed, over and over again, but _would_ he know, really, would he ever really know at all, if this _wasn't_ a trick of the light, if Merlin really _did_ have—would he know, then, would he really know—?

"I-I'm sorry, Arthur," Merlin whispered, and his breath trembled on the way out of his mouth and tears sparkled in his eyes, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to—for you to find it out like this—"

No. This wasn't—this wasn't _real_ , this couldn't be real, this couldn't be true, _how_ could Merlin have magic? _Merlin_ and _magic_? No, that wasn't—that wasn't the way it worked, that wasn't the way it was supposed to work, because Merlin was terrified of magic, and he was absolute rubbish in battle and God knew he could never keep a secret to save his life, so how could he— _how could he—?_

"I'm sorry," Merlin said, again, and even softer this time, even quieter, and he looked away, shoulders hunched up and head ducked down low and his hair a dark veil in front of his face, and why would he say that, why would he do that, if he _didn't have_ —? But he _couldn't have_ —he just couldn't—it didn't make any sense, and it didn't—it didn't fit, it just didn't fit, all the bits and pieces Arthur held in his hands didn't fit together at all, not with the Merlin he knew, not with _his_ Merlin.

But did he know Merlin? Did he know Merlin _at all_? No, that was ridiculous, because he _did_ know Merlin, of course he knew Merlin, he had only spent the last six years with the man on his heels, at his side, and he knew Merlin was an idiot, and he knew Merlin was a girl, and he knew Merlin was absolute rubbish in battle and he knew Merlin couldn't keep a secret to save his life and he knew Merlin was terrified of magic, always got all tense and pale and quiet—

Oh. No. It couldn't be true. _It couldn't be true_. Could it?

But—God, if Merlin had magic, if Merlin really had magic, he wouldn't want to talk about it, would he, not here, not in Camelot, and he had—he had said _I didn't mean for you to find out like this_ —

"Show me." Arthur didn't mean to say to it—he didn't even know he was _going_ to say it at all until the words fell out of his mouth, but he knew he wouldn't take it back, even if he could. "Let me see." He had to see it. He _had_ to see it, or he would never believe it.

Merlin's head snapped up. His thin cheeks looked very white in the light of the sun. "Wh-what?" His fingers trembled again around the golden crystal.

"I-I'm not sure that's wise, Sire," Sir Dinadan murmured, from over by the table, and he nervously flicked his grey eyes between Arthur and Merlin.

But Arthur had to see it. Or he would never believe it. If he didn't see it, if he didn't have the absolute and irrefutable proof of it, he would always wonder—he knew himself too well to think he wouldn't, and he knew he would always wonder about it, if he didn't see it, he would always wonder _but what if it was a trick of the light, what if the crystal was broken, what if the crystal was wrong?_ If he didn't see it, with his own eyes, there would _always_ be room in his mind to think like that, to wonder like that, and he couldn't—he couldn't _do_ that, he could _not_ do that, he could not _let himself_ do that. He couldn't take the easy way out. Not here. Not now.

"Show me."

Merlin swallowed. It sounded very loud in the thick silence of the bedchamber, and his throat bobbed with it. "I—I don't—" he shook his head, and half-glanced at Agravaine, like he thought, like he _really_ _thought_ the man might step in and save him any moment now. "I don't think—"

"I said, _show me_!"

Merlin flinched— _no_ , he _did not_ get to do that, not again, he _did not_ get to cringe and cower and whimper, like a beaten dog, like a stricken animal, and make Arthur feel sorry for him again, that would _not_ work this time, that would not get him out of it this time—but, finally, he dragged in a shaky, shuddery sort of breath, and he nodded.

Merlin held out his hand—palm up to the sky, and fingers spread, just like a—just like a _sorcerer_ , and Arthur's stomach clenched tight—and the crystal lifted. The crystal _actually lifted_ _up off his skin_ , the crystal _lifted up into the air_ , and it was—it was _magic._

It was _real_ magic. It was _actual_ _magic._ It was _Merlin's_ magic.

Because Merlin had magic.

Merlin had magic.

Merlin was _still doing magic_ , and Jesus fucking Christ, the crystal _hovered_ there, over his open hand and long fingers, like a sun, like a star, and his _eyes_ —Arthur didn't want to look, he never wanted to look, he wanted to cut out his own eyes so he _couldn't_ look, but he looked, because if he didn't see it, he would never believe it, and Merlin's eyes burned and burned and burned with magic, with sorcery, with everything that had ever hurt Camelot, with everything that had ever hurt his father, with everything that had killed his father, Merlin's eyes burned, unnatural and inhuman and just like Morgana's, and Arthur—

—Arthur ripped out his sword and pointed the sharp, shining tip of the blade at Merlin.

Merlin had magic.

How had it happened? How had Merlin come to this? Why had he turned to _magic_ , of all things, the one that would corrupt him, his mind, his body, his soul, why had he turned to the one thing he could never turn away _from_? And how had Arthur not seen? How had Arthur gotten played for a fool _again_?

"No!" The crystal dropped down into Merlin's open palm again and he curled his fingers loosely over it. His eyes burned and burned and burned all the way back down to blue, and he was Merlin again, just like that, natural and human and utterly, undeniably Merlin. "No, Arthur," he shook his head, "—y-you don't understand, it's not like that, it's not what you think, _I'm not_ —!"

"You," Arthur held his head and his blade high as he could, higher than he ever had, but the truth settled hard and heavy as a stone in his stomach, even as he said the words, "have been found guilty of using magic and enchantments. There is but one sentence I can pass."

"N-No, I—" Merlin swallowed, and shook his head again, "—I use it for you, Arthur, only for you—" he reached his empty hand out, to grab Arthur, to _touch_ Arthur—

"Don't!" Arthur thrust his sword out a little farther, a little harder, until Merlin had to step back, and the lying traitor had the nerve to do that stupid little flinch again. "Don't try and talk your way out of this, _sorcerer_. Secrets and lies won't save you now."

And was all of it a lie, then? Just a lie? Only a lie, only _ever_ a lie? Had any of it ever been real at all, or was the clumsy, goofy servant who couldn't hold a sword the right way up all just a mask Merlin put on every morning?

 _Was all his loyalty to me just a mask he put on every morning?_

"Please, Arthur," Merlin said, and God, he sounded so pathetic, Arthur could almost believe him, almost pity him, "please, listen to me, I never wanted to hurt you, please, you have to know that, you have to know I never wanted—"

"If you didn't want to hurt," Arthur said, and coldly, too, a sharp sheet of frigid ice in his voice, "you would not have turned to magic." He jerked his chin at Sir Ector. "Take him down to the dungeons. He will remain there until justice can be carried out."

"Yes, Sire," Sir Ector dipped his head in a quick bow, and grabbed Merlin up again, twisted Merlin's small, skinny arm up behind his back again, and Merlin sucked in a loud, sharp breath, and Arthur didn't care, this time, how Sir Ector dragged Merlin around like an animal, like a beast, like a dog, because _that's what he is, isn't he, that's what he is, that's all he is, that's what all sorcerers are. Beasts. Monsters._

"—no—Arthur—!" Merlin jerked wildly in Sir Ector's tight grasp the whole way out into the corridor, so wildly, Sir Dinadan and Sir Bors came over to help Sir Ector hold onto him. His eyes, his unnatural, inhuman, golden eyes, had gone wide again in his white face. "—listen to me, you have to listen to me, no, please, Arthur—!"

And the door slammed shut.

And it was over.

It was all over.

* * *

 **Notes: HUZZAH this chapter was such a BITCH oh my god i literally started it two days after i finished the last one and it was such a FUCKING BITCH it took me THIS FUCKING LONG ! tHIS ! FUCKING ! LONG ! ? im shook. anyways sorry about the wait, though! i think i've rewritten this about six times now, and it went through a LOT of revisions before i finally settled on this! why was this so hard to write, it's been in my outline FOR FUCKING EVER. oof. anyway, i hope to get the next chapter up by November 7, but we'll see how it all works out! hopefully the next chapter will be easier. fingers crossed.**


	12. Don't Trust Nobody and Nobody Trusts Me

"I don't trust nobody, and nobody trusts me,

I'll be the actress starring in your bad dreams.

I don't trust nobody, and nobody trusts me,

I'll be the actress starring in your bad dreams."

\- _Look What You Made Me Do,_ Taylor Swift

* * *

"—I'm so sorry, Sire—"

Merlin had magic. _Actual_ magic, _real_ magic, the sort of magic where bright white crystals turned to gold at his touch, and lifted up off his open hand and hovered in the air at his command, the sort of magic where his eyes _burned_ , and Arthur hadn't seen it, Arthur had _never seen it_.

"—I know this is a truly terrible shock—"

Arthur had just thought—all these years, he had just thought—he had really thought Merlin just _liked_ being a servant, or maybe Merlin liked being _his_ servant, because Merlin had _said_ he liked it, hadn't he? On that night, nearly six years ago, and Arthur's head had felt hazy and thick and slow with the wine in his mouth and the pain of the poison still in his veins, but he knew he hadn't merely imagined it, he knew he hadn't dreamed it up, made it up, he knew he had heard it, he knew he had heard Merlin say _I'm happy to be your servant until the day I die_ , and God, Arthur had actually _believed_ him.

"—but we both saw Merlin use magic, we both saw that crystal—"

Had Merlin laughed when he left the room? Had he stepped out into the dark and quiet corridor, where no one would see him, and no one would hear him, and laughed at Arthur, so stupid and naïve, so quick to believe, so quick to eat up and swallow down every pretty little poisonous lie Merlin had ever put in his mouth, so quick to see loyalty where none had ever really existed at all?

"—neither of us want to believe it, but now—"

Arthur dropped down onto the edge of his bed, but the whole world still swirled around him in a dizzy haze, in a blur of colors and sounds and a hundred thousand things he couldn't make any sense of at all.

"—and it's not merely the discovery that he was a sorcerer, it's the lies—"

Arthur pressed his hands into his eyes, hard as he could, but it didn't do an ounce of good at all, because he could still see Merlin's face, all lit up with the glare of the sun outside and the shine of the crystal in his hand, and he could still hear Merlin's voice, shaky and scared, _please listen to me, you have to know I never wanted to hurt you,_ but that was a lie, wasn't it, just like all the others, just like all the rest of it, just like when Merlin said _I'm happy to be your servant until the day I die_ , just like that, just pile after pile of pretty words, all so full of sugar it could make Arthur sick just to think of it, just to play it all back again in his head. It was a lie, all of it, everything, it was all a lie, it had always been a lie, and Merlin had never meant one word of it at all.

And Arthur hadn't seen it.

Arthur had never seen it.

"I was a fool," he whispered, into the dark and the quiet behind his own hands, and he didn't know if he wanted Agravaine to hear it, he didn't know if he wanted anyone to hear it at all, but he had to say it, he had to get it out of his own head. "I was nothing but a fool. I should _never_ have trusted him."

"We all make mistakes, Sire," Agravaine said, and patted Arthur lightly on his armored shoulder with a warm, broad hand. "But you have been given an opportunity to set it right, and surely you must see that is what matters now."

Yes. Arthur knew that. No matter how much he wanted it, no matter how much he wanted to simply sink down, to drown, in all the hurt, all the betrayal, all the years he had lost to secrets and lies and sorcery, let it wash over him, and wash him clean of all Merlin's crimes, he knew this was not the time for it. His own guilt and grief would serve no purpose here, and he raised his head to look up at his uncle and jerked his chin down in a quick half-nod.

"In accordance with the law," Arthur said, just as his father had said, a hundred thousand times before, word for word, letter for letter, "the sorcerer will face execution at dawn tomorrow, by fire." Just as his father had said, a hundred thousand times before, word for word and letter for letter, except Arthur knew his father's hands had never started to shake right in the middle, he knew his father's throat had never pulled up tight and small and painful, he knew his father's mouth had never turned dry and stale as sand, he knew his father had never wavered, never wobbled, never faltered, because his father had always known, better than he ever would, the crime of magic could not be forgiven.

"Well," Agravaine's mouth edged down in a frown, "ah, yes, Sire, naturally, I would expect nothing less, but—but I—ah—" he stopped, suddenly, and chewed lightly at his bottom lip.

Arthur sat up a little straighter on the bed. Maybe it was only a trick of the light—a _real_ trick of the light this time—but there was a gleam in Agravaine's dark eyes he didn't think he liked. What more could his uncle have in mind for Merlin? "What else would you have me do, Lord Agravaine? I can't execute him twice." His stomach twisted up in a hard, tense knot even as the words left his mouth. He didn't know—and he had to, he knew he had to, he knew he didn't have a choice, he knew he could not turn away from the duty before him, but he _just didn't know_ if he could execute Merlin even _once_. He had never had his father's strength and steel, he had never had his father's resolution and resolve, and _how am I meant to look the man in the eyes while I light his pyre—?_

"Sire," Agravaine hauled in a breath, "I must insist upon the employment of stronger measures with Merlin while he remains within the castle."

"Stronger measures?" Arthur held his head high as he could. This was one belief on which he would never bend. "Camelot does not condone the practice of torture, Lord Agravaine." He pushed himself off the edge of the bed, back on his feet. "And nor do I."

"Ah, forgive me, Sire," Agravaine tipped his head, "I see I have not made myself clear. I shall be straightforward with you." He lifted his chin and looked Arthur straight in the eyes now. "Merlin has already proven himself dangerous beyond belief. For many years, he fooled all within this castle, and I have no doubt he will do whatever he deems necessary to escape justice."

 _Oh._ Arthur relaxed, but he only shook his head. "I understand your concern, Lord Agravaine, and I thank you for your caution, but the sorcerer will not talk his way out of this one. You may be sure of that." He would _never_ believe another word to come out of Merlin's mouth, not again, not ever again. He would not make the same mistake twice

"My Lord," Agravaine's brows dipped low over his eyes in a dark scowl, and his frown twisted up in a grimace now, "you _must_ listen to me. Your resolve is admirable, of course, but it is not nearly enough. Do you truly believe he will not attempt to attack the kingdom from within?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows. Admittedly, he knew very little about sorcery, he had really only picked up scattered bits and pieces from Gaius, but he knew enough to know magic over so great a distance would hardly stir up a ripple in a smooth lake. "To attack the kingdom from within while he's securely confined in the dungeons? That's madness, Lord Agravaine, you must know he could never—"

"He's a _sorcerer_!" Agravaine's lips curled back in a snarl until all of his teeth showed through. "Do you truly believe he will make no attempt to enchantthe court? To enchant us all? To enchant _you_?"

Arthur stopped. "No," he said, reflexively, and he shook his head, but _sorcerers will do anything to save their own pathetic skin, won't they, that's what they do, that's what they always do, and maybe he's done it before, maybe he's enchanted me before, maybe all those times he got accused of sorcery, he enchanted me so I'd stand up for him, even against my father, maybe that's why I never sacked him, maybe that's why I sacked him and then took him back on again, because he made me, because he messed with my head and he made me take him back—_

"There is only one solution I can see, Sire," Agravaine said, grimly. "It is unfortunate, but it is the only way to ensure Merlin does not hoodwink the whole castle all over again."

Arthur swallowed—how many times now _had_ Merlin hoodwinked the whole castle, enchanted all of them with a single word, a single glance, a flick of his fingers and a flash of his eyes, how many times had Merlin gotten inside his head and made him do things he didn't want to do, things he didn't _mean_ to do, and how would he _know_? How would he ever know, how _could_ he ever know, if Merlin had bewitched him, beguiled him, gotten inside his head, poisoned him from the inside out? How would he _know_ if his mind was not his own?

No. Agravaine was right, absolutely right, just as he always was. Merlin was a risk too big to take.

"What—" Arthur straightened his shoulders in a soft swish of scarlet cloak, and turned, resolutely, to look his uncle full in the face, "—what do you suggest, Lord Agravaine?"

"I understand the crystal we discovered in the sorcerer's chambers was foreign to you," Agravaine said, with a quick dip of his dark head, and he reached out a hand for the heap of relics from Merlin's chambers piled up on the table, "but I would assume," he snapped his broad fingers around the heavy iron ring and hefted it up off the polished wood, "you are more familiar with this?" He arched his dark brows at Arthur.

Arthur frowned. No, he was _not_ familiar with it, actually, not at all, and he wondered, with a sharp jolt of the stomach, if this was yet another strange and sorcerous artifact his father had stuffed deep down in the vaults and left to fester and ferment in the dark. "I'm afraid not, Lord Agravaine," he said, at last, and darted a quick glance up at his uncle. "Would you like to enlighten me?"

"Of course, Sire," Agravaine dipped his head again, "of course, naturally. This was a great favorite of your father's—"

Right. Yes. There it was. Right there. Arthur sucked in a breath and nodded, but the same tired old questions circled 'round again in his mind— _how well did I really know my father, how many secrets did he keep from me, will I ever know all the words he never said to me_ —?

"—in the early days of the war on magic, collars such as these commonly served to restrain sorcerers."

"Collars?" Arthur echoed, and he snapped his eyes reflexively back to the ring in his uncle's hands. He had thought, perhaps a bracelet, a very ugly and plain and heavy bracelet, to be sure, but _that_ was supposed to go around somebody's _throat_ —?

"Yes, _collars_ ," Agravaine said, and the edges of his mouth flicked up in a small smile. "It's very simple, Sire, you need only fasten this around the sorcerer's neck, and in a moment, he will lose every last bit of his magic, and you may rest easy this night."

"Lose his magic?" Arthur echoed. "Permanently?" For all of half a moment, a warm burst of bright hope rushed up inside him— _maybe it's not too late for Merlin, maybe this is the way to save him, if he gives up his magic forever, that's it, that's all, that's the only thing he has to do, just give up his magic—_

"Ah, not quite, I'm afraid, Sire," Agravaine held up a hand. "The collar _must_ stay against the sorcerer's skin at all times, and the moment you remove it, the magic will return. This is not intended to be an eternal solution."

"Of course," Arthur said, numbly, and he nodded up at his uncle, but _stupid, that was stupid, that was so stupid, it was too late for Merlin the minute he turned to magic, I can't save him, no one can save him, you can't save a sorcerer, even if I could take away the magic, I couldn't save him, I couldn't fix him, I couldn't make him right._ "I understand."

"I fear the pyre is the only true cure," Agravaine went on, gravely, "for the atrocity your servant has welcomed into his mind and body."

"Of course," Arthur said, again, because of course, he knew that, of course he knew this was the only way, but he still had to push, hard, just to get the words off his tongue. "Of course, you're right."

"But," Agravaine clapped his empty hand down on Arthur's shoulder again, "this will ensure the kingdom's safety until we can administer the true cure." He pushed the collar into Arthur's open hands and lifted his dark eyes to Arthur's face. "You understand it must be done, Sire. For Camelot."

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, and dragged in a long, ragged breath, and the sound of it trembled, a little, in the stark, heavy silence of the bedchamber, but he wrapped his fingers around the collar, and he opened his eyes back up again, and he nodded.

"Yes," he said, "of course. I understand."

 _For Camelot._

* * *

 _It's not Merlin,_ Arthur told himself, over and over again, a hundred thousand times on his way down to the dungeons, his fingers numb and his knuckles white around the cold metal in his hands. _It's not Merlin, it's not really Merlin, it's not really Merlin at all, because the man I knew as Merlin never really existed, the man I knew as Merlin was a lie, all a lie, every last word of it, and I'm not going to listen to him this time, I'm not going to let him talk to me, I'm not going to let him talk his way out of this one, I'm just going to lock the collar 'round his throat and go, leave, get out, this is just another sorcerer, this isn't Merlin, this isn't really Merlin—_

But his breath still snagged in the back of his throat to see the man in the cell.

An enormous, ugly, livid bruise glared out at Arthur from the side of Merlin's face, his pale skin purple and swollen, and a thin line of bright red blood streaked narrowly down his temple, his dark hair matted with the mud and straw scattered over the dungeon floor. But the second he saw Arthur, he pushed himself up off the ground and scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide in his thin and battered face.

"Arthur!" God, and he still _smiled_ like Merlin, too, _just_ like Merlin, a little bit too big and a little bit too goofy, a flash of dimples and a flash of his teeth and his eyes all crinkled up at the corners and how could he look like he had never done a thing wrong in his life at all when he had _magic_ , how could he still look liked Merlin, sound like Merlin, move like Merlin and talk like Merlin and smile like Merlin when he—when he had—?

shook his head, stuffed the heavy metal key in the door's rusted lock, and let himself inside the cell. No, this _wasn't_ Merlin. The man in front of him wasn't Merlin. Because Merlin had never really existed at all. Merlin was a mask. Just a mask, a thing to put on in the morning and strip off in the dark of the night, an act, a show, a part to play, and nothing else, nothing at all, just that, just a lie, right from the start and all the way to the end, andthis wasn't Merlin, then, this wasn't Merlin, because Merlin had never existed, Merlin had never really been real.

And if Arthur could only hold onto that truth, that unshakable, irrefutable certainty, it would make all of this so much easier. "Take off your scarf."

Merlin grabbed, at once, for the raggedy red cloth at his neck, his white fingers turned grimy and brown with the dirt in the filthy cell. "Wh-What?"

" _Take off your scarf,"_ Arthur snapped it out, this time, short and sharp, no room for a fight and no room to say no and no room to ask why. It was a _scarf_ , for God's sake, that was all, he wasn't going to make the man to strip down to his underthings.

"A-Arthur—" Merlin shook his head, and stumbled back, one hand still tangled in his kerchief, "I-I don't—"

" _Take off the damn scarf, Merlin!"_

Merlin swallowed—and Arthur could see it, the sharp bob of his throat, under the stupid scarf, and he could see the way Merlin's hands started to shake, the way his fingers started to tremble, as he loosed the thick knot in the back, as he pulled the cloth from his skin, and he ducked his dark head down, his breath a harsh and heavy rasp in and out of his mouth.

Arthur clicked the collar open.

Merlin snapped his head up again. "What—?" His wide, terrified eyes flicked down to the collar, and he swallowed again, with another sharp bob of his bared throat. He never raised his voice over a hoarse, horrified whisper. "What is _that_?"

Arthur nearly shouted, nearly grabbed Merlin up by the front of his tunic and shouted at him, screamed at him, _don't do that, don't you do that, don't you even try, don't try and play at innocence, you know what this is, you had it in your chambers, you had this in your chambers, you know exactly what this is,_ but he only dragged in a breath and raised his eyebrows. "You can drop the pretense now, sorcerer. It will serve you no longer."

" _What is that?"_ Merlin said, again, and louder this time, far louder, and he stumbled back so quickly, he tripped over his own boots twice. "A-Arthur, I-I don't understand," he hit the wall at last, and his breath hitched sharply in the silence, "I don't—I don't know what—"

And Arthur _did_ grab Merlin, then—he fisted his strong fingers in the thin cloth of the man's pathetic, tattered jacket, and pinned him, hard, to the cold stone, and Merlin backed down, then—he just gave up, just like that, he just gave in, he just went absolutely and utterly limp and still against the dungeon wall, and Arthur found he could finally get the collar firm around the man's bony throat, he could finally snap the little metal latch shut—

And Merlin _screamed_ , sudden and sharp and _loud_ , like Arthur had burned him, like Arthur had struck him with a hot iron brand, like Arthur had shoved him flat down onto a bed of blazing coals, and _what's happening, what the hell is happening, what the hell is going on, why is he doing that_ , _why is he—?_

Merlin crashed to the ground, on hands and knees, and even in the low light of the dark dungeons, Arthur could see the trail of sweat where it gleamed on Merlin's pale forehead, and he could hear that awful scream, an endless echo over and over again in his ears, in his head, and _it's hurting him, it's hurting him, the collar is hurting him,_ but Agravaine had never said—God, no, Agravaine had never said a thing about this at all, Agravaine had never said it would hurt him, Agravaine had never said it would make him scream like he had never screamed before, Agravaine had never said it would hurt him so bad, he couldn't even stand up, and if Arthur had known—if Agravaine had told him, if Agravaine had just told him—if Arthur had known it would do this, if he had known it would hurt Merlin like this—and he _had_ to get it off, he had to take it off, he had to _help_ , he couldn't just leave Merlin here like this, he couldn't just _leave_ , and he already had a hand out, his fingers hardly half an inch from the collar's lock, when it hit him harder than a blow straight to the stomach, harder than a blow straight to the face.

Merlin was a _sorcerer._

And sorcerers would do anything to save their own pathetic, lying skin.

Arthur dropped his hand back to his side.

"Wh-What—?" Merlin—the _sorcerer_ —gasped out the word on a breathless whisper. "What d-did you—wh-what did you _do_ —?"

Arthur swallowed—trick or not, he could swear Merlin's eyes had actually glazed over with the pain of it, and his insides twisted up in tight knots again—but when he started to speak, his voice sounded very steady, in his own ears. "I've ensured you will hurt no one else while you are here."

"—no—" Merlin shook his head, wildly, side to side, back and forth, "—no, you can't—you can't take—" he lifted a trembling hand, and pressed the palm flat to his chest, "—y-you can't take my—you d-don't _understand_ —"

"I understand perfectly well," Arthur snapped—God, Merlin made everything look so _real_ , he made it look like he actually was—like it really _did_ hurt, like the pain was really real. "For as long as you remain alive, you are a danger to my people. I have eliminated the threat you pose."

"—no, _please_ —" tears started to glisten in the corners of Merlin's eyes, "—p-please, Arthur, please, listen to me, I _have_ to tell you—"

"You have had time enough now to tell me your lies, _sorcerer_ ," Arthur nearly snarled out the last word— _six years now, six years he's lied to me, six years he's deceived me, six years he's betrayed me, and he still thinks he's in with a chance, he still thinks he can talk his way out of this,_ "and I will listen to you _no longer_."

"—please—" Merlin tried to push himself up—or maybe he only put on an act, put up a front, maybe he only pretended, because mere moments later, he slumped back down into the dirt and straw with a harsh and heavy breath, "— _p-please,_ Arthur, you _need_ to hear—"

"Two nights earlier," Arthur cut in, his voice as firm and loud and steady as he could make it, clear as a bell over Merlin's jumbled, nervous babble, because if he didn't cut in, if he just let Merlin talk, if he just let Merlin ramble, he would give in, and he would listen, and he couldn't do that, not again, not ever again, he must keep his mind clear of Merlin's lies, "a number of innocent citizens witnessed your blatant performance of magic in the Lower Town. You will tell me, immediately and without hesitation, the nature of this magic. What curse did you cast upon these people?"

"—I—" Merlin shook his head again, slower this time, "—I d-didn't—I didn't do _anything_ , Arthur, I didn't—it w-wasn't—it wasn't a _curse_ —"

Arthur wrapped a hand around the silver hilt of the sword at his side. "Do not attempt to lie to me, sorcerer, Sir Gwaine tells me you failed to return to Gaius' chambers the night the sorcerer was spotted. So _what curse,"_ he said, again, and harsher, this time, harder, "did you cast upon these people?"

"—b-but I _didn't_ —" Merlin swallowed, "—I j-just—it was just—d-defensive magic, Sire, I-I put up b-barriers, a-and blocks and things, to stop—to stop—"

" _Defensive magic_?" Arthur barked out a short, bitter laugh—and, oh, God, Merlin really thought he'd believe that, Merlin really thought he'd just _smile_ , and _nod_ , and _lap it up_ _like a dog_ , so dumb and obedient and docile, just a stupid, stitched-up puppet on a string. "The truth, _now_ , sorcerer, _what did you do_?"

"That _is_ the truth!" Merlin leaned up off the wall a little. "I-I swear it, Sire, I swear, I would _never_ hurt Camelot, I use it for you, only for you, _it's yours_ —"

" _Then what do you call this, Merlin?!"_ Arthur nearly screamed it, his throat pulled so tight he could scarcely push the words out. "What the hell do you call this?! What the hell do you call _the last six years of lies and betrayal_?!"

"I-I never—" a few sparkling tears cut clean tracks through the filth on Merlin's face, "—I n-never _wanted_ to lie to you, I wanted to tell you, Arthur, I swear, I always wanted to tell you—"

"Did you?" The fury still boiled like blood in Arthur's veins, but the words didn't come out a scream this time.

Merlin only stared back with his cracked lips half-open and his glistening, bloodshot eyes wide.

"If you wanted to tell me," Arthur hissed, and so quiet, he didn't think Merlin could even hear him at all, "why did I finally find out the truth from a _crystal_?"

Merlin looked away.

And, God, but what else had Arthur even expected? What else had he thought would happen, what else had he thought Merlin would do? This, here, right now, this wasn't going to do any good, this wasn't going to change anything, even if he shouted and screamed until his throat bled, because Merlin had _magic_ , and everything he had done with Arthur—everything he had done _for_ Arthur—everything he had said to Arthur—all the smiles, all the secrets, all the laughs and drinks and jokes and early mornings and late nights, a hundred thousand times he had looked at Merlin, and he had thought _this is the only man in this world I can truly trust_ —

But none of it had ever really been _real_.

None of it had ever really been real at all.

Arthur shook his head—this wasn't going to do any good, this wasn't going to _change_ anything, and he had wasted enough time down here already, and it was all he could do now to burn Merlin, it was the last thing he could give to Merlin, fire, a way to purify his blackened and magic-tarnished soul in the flames, a small, slim chance of divine salvation, a hope that he might move on into the next world.

"A-Arthur, wait, I-I have to—I have to tell you—"

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a long breath. "You cannot talk your way out of justice, sorcerer. Don't be so foolish as to try."

"—no, please, that's not—" the straw rustled loudly in the silence, like Merlin had tried to stand back up again—like had put on an act, put up a front, pretended, only Arthur didn't see it, this time, "—it's—it's Morgana—she's—"

" _Morgana?"_ Arthur snapped his eyes open—and he _knew_ he shouldn't listen, he knew it was a lie, he knew it wasn't true, he knew he should walk away now, he knew he should get out, _sorcerers will say anything, do anything, to save their own pathetic, lying skin,_ but he whirled back around to look at Merlin anyway, and so quickly, the dungeon's walls blurred around him in a dizzy mess of wood and stone.

"—sh-she plans to attack," Merlin stammered, and too fast, far too fast, and a little bit wild, too, like he knew he had only a moment to get it all out, like he knew he didn't have long before Arthur left, "she plans to march on Camelot, I-I don't know when, but she has something to help her, some kind of magic—um, _thing_ , I think, I don't know what it is, I didn't see it, I couldn't—a-and I think she has an army, too, Arthur, I think she has an army, a proper one, this time, I mean, and I think she's going to—"

Arthur's head had already started to spin with all the words, all the new and terrible routes and roads he had to take— _how will we treat our wounded without Gaius_ and _how will we hold the citadel against her, against her magic, we didn't do it last time, we couldn't do it last time_ and _how will we make it with so few men_ and _how many march with her, how many can she claim as her own_ and _are there more sorcerers this time to back her, to stand with her_ and _can we really stand against so much magic—_?

 _Oh._ Arthur jerked his head up to look at Merlin again—God, he didn't want to believe it, he never wanted to believe it, and he didn't want to ask, he didn't want to know, he never, ever wanted to know, if he could just take all the words, all the questions, and swallow it all down inside him, if he had to take it all and choke on it, he would, by God, he would, because it would be better than—better than—

"Merlin," he said, and sharply—he could hear it, in his own ears, like a knife, like a sword, "how do you know this?"

Merlin wrinkled his dark brow and, for half a moment, he looked almost like Merlin again, the Merlin he had been only this morning, the Merlin who tripped over his own boots and said all the wrong things at all the wrong moments and didn't have an ounce of magic inside him at all. "I—I don't—" he shook his head, "—I found her, in the forest, in the Darkling Woods, and I—"

"Joined her?"

"What?" Merlin's mouth actually dropped open by the barest inch—God, he was _actually good_ at this, wasn't he, really good at this, so much better than Arthur had expected. "N-No! Arthur, I-I would _never_ —not _ever_ —it's yours, _I'm_ yours—"

"How long have you plotted alongside her?" Arthur broke in, his voice high and tight in his ears with the pain of it. This was it, wasn't it? This was it, this was always it, Merlin and Morgana, together, and Arthur was always too stupid, too blind, to open up his eyes and _see it. "_ Against _me_?"

" _Never,"_ Merlin insisted, but his hands had started to shake again, and the tears in the corners of his eyes trickled out, down his face. "Never, Arthur, I swear it, I would never do anything to hurt you, it was all for you, everything was all for you, everything, always, _for you_ —"

"Well," Arthur snatched up his sword again, but this time, he jerked the blade from the sheath, "I'll make sure to tell Morgana how her little spy tried to stab her in the back right up until the end." He grabbed, blindly, for the door at his back, and wrapped his fingers around the handle.

"No!" Merlin didn't scream, not the way he had at the touch of the cold collar on his skin but, somehow, this sounded _so much worse_. "No, Arthur, please, I would never betray you, I would never hurt you, I never wanted to lie to you, I never meant to lie, I did everything for you, it was all for you, it was you, it wasalways, _always_ you—!"

Arthur shoved the door open and slammed the thin, creaky wood back in its frame with a dull, heavy thud.

"Save your silver tongue for some poor fool who will actually believe you, _sorcerer_."

* * *

Merlin had thought he would never know a moment worse than the first time Agravaine had kissed him—the first time Agravaine had touched him, the first time Agravaine had fucked him—but to look at Arthur, and see all the hurt, all the grief, all the sorrow and misery and absolute devastation, and know, with every breath, every beat of his terrified and too-fast heart, that _he_ had put it there, _he_ had taken all that pain, and he had put it there, in Arthur's face, in Arthur's eyes, in Arthur's chest, _he_ had done that to Arthur, just like Morgana had—

No, this was _so much worse_.

And Merlin _knew_ he needed to get up—brush off the dirt and wipe away the tears, pick himself back up and get back to it, get back up again, he knew this wasn't the end, he knew this wasn't over, not really, not so long as Morgana was still out there, not so long as Agravaine was still in here, not so long as he still had breath in his body, not so long as he could still raise his hand, not so long as he could still stand in front of Arthur, keep Arthur safe, protect Arthur—but he just—he just _couldn't_ , not with the bite and burn of the cold metal collar clasped so tight around his throat, a pain so sharp he could barely move, barely breathe, barely even think.

 _Arthur—_ the name echoed back at him, over and over and over again inside his dazed and exhausted mind, so slow and heavy with the agony of the collar— _Arthur, I have to get up and I have to take care of Arthur, I have to keep Arthur safe,_ but how could he do that, how could he take care of Arthur, how could he keep Arthur safe, when he was—when he—?

Even if he did get back up again—even if he _could_ get back up again—he would be worse than useless to Arthur, to all of his friends, without his magic, and he had tried, a hundred thousand times now, he had tried to get it back, he had plucked and pulled and ripped at the collar's latch, but he couldn't do it, he couldn't get it open, and it only burned hotter and hotter with every yank, every tug, and he couldn't do it anymore, he couldn't try anymore, it hurt too much, but he had to try, he had to get it open, he had to get the collar off, he had to _get his magic back_ —

Oh. God. _His magic_.

Merlin swallowed—and Jesus fucking Christ, _that_ hurt, too, the light bump of heavy iron against the skin of his throat, and God, his magic, _he missed his magic_ , he had never known a day without it, he had never even known so much as a moment without it, and he could still _feel_ it, a faint buzz in the back of his mind and under his skin and in his veins, an insect trapped in a jar, and he had to let it out, one way or another, he had to let it out, he couldn't _live_ like this—

 _But I won't live like this, because I won't live very much longer at all, because Arthur is going to come down and kill me,_ and for half a moment, Merlin had to wonder if maybe that would be _better_ —maybe that would be better for everyone, maybe it would be better if he just _wasn't here_ anymore, if he just—if he just let it happen, if he just stood back and let it all happen, let this all play out, just let destiny take him where it would, let fate take over all the worry for a little while.

And it would feel so good to just _not fight_ anymore.

It would feel so good to finally stop, to finally take a breath, and feel all the weight of all the world roll off his shoulders, to look around and know he had done his duty, he had done as destiny had demanded, it would feel so good to finally rest, and know he _could_ rest, to know the fear that had so nearly devoured him, the fear that had so nearly eaten him alive, couldn't touch him anymore, couldn't hurt him, couldn't chase him into dreams and turn it all to nightmares, to know he could finally close his eyes and sleep, and to know, when he awakened, the world would still be standing, with or without him.

 _And I would see Will again_ , and his throat tightened, and hot tears pricked, sharp and stinging, at the backs of his eyes, _and Balinor, and Freya, and Lancelot, and I could finally say it, I could finally tell them all I love them, I could finally tell them all I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen, I didn't mean to fail—_

"Well, I have to say, you certainly have looked better, haven't you?"

Merlin snapped his head up—and the collar burned like a bonfire on his skin, but the sharp and scorching heat of his own wild fury blazed so much brighter, so much hotter, so much higher. " _What_ are _you_ doing here?" He shoved himself up off the crackling, rustling straw—and if he could just stand up, if he could just get back up on his feet again, God, if he could just _reach his magic_ —but already, his arms trembled with the effort of it, and he could feel the first thin trail of sweat trickle slowly down the side of his face.

Agravaine raised his dark eyebrows, but the corners of his lips twitched a little. "Now, Merlin, is that any way to treat a visitor? Really," he slid the key smoothly into the lock, turned it until the bolt clicked, and opened up the door, "even with your dreadful manners, I should think you would—"

" _What the fuck is wrong with you?!"_ Merlin didn't shout it, because he _couldn't_ shout it— not after how he had shouted when Arthur had fastened the collar around his neck, not with how hoarse and harsh and raspy his voice had gone, no, it was all he could do just to push the words out past his sore throat at all, but he couldn't stay quiet for a single second longer after—after _that_ , and Agravaine really had the nerve to saunter down here and act like—act like—

"Why did you—why the _fuck_ did you—?" But all the words got twisted and turned and tangled up, one after another after another, until he could hardly remember what he had wanted to say at all, and it was a stupid question anyway, wasn't it, because he knew the answer already, he knew what Agravaine would say, he knew _why_ , and so he broke off with a sharp jerk of the head. "What was—?" He flicked a tired glance up at Agravaine's awful, triumphant face. "What was the _point_?"

 _What do you want,_ he wanted to ask, but he didn't, he couldn't, he wasn't so brave as all of that, _what do you want now, what more do you want from me, what more can you want from me, is there even anything left for you to want, is there even anything left for you to take, I gave you everything last night, I gave you everything, all of it, I gave you everything, and what else do you want from me when I gave you everything you wanted, when I'm everything you said you wanted—_?

"Well," Agravaine stepped inside and shut the door behind him—the old wood rattled loudly at his touch—before he turned back to look at Merlin, his dark brows arched again, and his broad shoulders raised in a sort of shrug, "surely you can understand, Merlin. And better than most, if truth be told. After all, a man _must_ act in his own best interests, must he not?"

Merlin clenched his fingers up in fists around the dirty, scratchy straw under his palms—if he didn't, he knew instinct would take over, and he would throw out a hand, and he would holler a spell, and it wouldn't do any good at all. " _Morgana's_ best interests, you mean," he snapped out, and then swallowed down a wince as the collar pulsed white-hot at his neck.

"Oh, yes," Agravaine smiled, "yes, I can see how you might come to such a conclusion. For the moment, the Lady Morgana's ambitions _do_ align rather neatly with mine. Quite convenient, really."

"Yes, isn't it just _lovely_ when you and the other half of your lying, traitorous murderer duo share all the same values?" Merlin spat out.

But Agravaine didn't listen to him or, at least, it didn't look like he did. "Well, I must confess, there _was_ a bit of a—ah, _dispute_ , shall we say, on what to do with you—"

" _Do_ with me?" Merlin narrowed his eyes and tried to push himself up a little higher on the heap of straw. "I'm not _yours_ , you don't get to—"

"— _but_ ," Agravaine said, loudly, and lifted his chin a little higher, "you will be pleased to hear, we have reached a conclusion desirable for all parties." He knelt down in the dirt, and trailed his fingers lightly down Merlin's cheek. "Once the Lady Morgana has taken her rightful place as queen—"

Merlin smacked at Agravaine's hand and _don't touch me,_ he wanted to scream, _don't ever fucking touch me again, it's over, you're never going to touch me again, you're never going to even look at me again,_ but he knew there was something more right here, right now, something more important to say, something more important to press. " _Arthur_ is the rightful king," he said, "no matter _what_ Morgana—"

"Darling, it is _really_ not polite to interrupt," Agravaine clicked his tongue, and grabbed Merlin's hand up in his. Warm lips left a light, quick kiss on Merlin's white knuckles. "You know I would never turn down an opportunity to hear that lovely little voice of yours, but you really must learn to wait your turn."

" _Fuck you_ ," Merlin hissed, because he couldn't think of anything else, anything worse, he couldn't think of anything bad enough for the man in front of him, and he wrenched his hand away.

"Oh, now, don't be like that," Agravaine leaned in a little, just close enough so Merlin flinched, so Merlin edged, on blind reflex, back into the cold wooden wall behind him. "Don't you want to hear the good news, love?"

"How will I ever survive the suspense?" Merlin said, as flatly as he could with his heart in his throat and his hands shaking in the straw.

Agravaine smiled—except it wasn't a smile, not really, it was too sharp for that, too _sick_ for that, no, it wasn't a smile at all. It was the look of a shark showing all its teeth. "Once the Lady Morgana has resumed her rule—"

Merlin scoffed—that was a _very_ kind way to put it, far better than _a spoiled little girl got her tantrum cut short, and wants to come back and try again_ —but he bit his tongue. And even if the kingdom _did_ fall into Morgana's hands again, _he_ would already be dead, gone, nothing but ashes and embers and dust, too far for her to reach, too far for her to follow.

"—you," Agravaine raised an eyebrow—oh, so he _had_ heard Merlin's noise, then, but he didn't stop, this time, "will belong to _me_."

Merlin wanted to laugh—hell, he nearly did laugh, he _would_ have laughed, if Agravaine didn't look so absolutely, utterly serious right now. " _Belong_ to you? I hate to have to bear the bad news, really, I do, but I'm not going to _be here_ to 'belong' to much of anybody by this time tomorrow." _What does he think he's going to do, sweep my ashes up out of the courtyard and keep them in a jar?_ No. Never mind. Best not to give Agravaine any ideas, because Merlin really, really wouldn't put that past him.

"By this time tomorrow," Agravaine said at once, and he smiled that smile-that-wasn't-really-a-smile again, too sharp, too _sick_ , "Camelot will have a new ruler, and Queen Morgana, I assure you, is _far_ more lenient on magic than Uther's spawn."

Merlin's insides turned all at once to ice. "Tomorrow?" _So quickly? So soon?_ He had thought he would have more time, he had thought he would have one more chance to talk to Arthur, to prove it to him, to open his eyes, to make him see—he hadn't thought he would need to prove it to Arthur at all, really, he had just thought Arthur would believe him, he had thought Arthur would listen to him, he had thought Arthur would _know_ —

"Well," Agravaine laughed, actually laughed, and the sound was a knife in Merlin's stomach, the sudden twist of a too-sharp blade, "she has no need to wait any longer." His dark eyes darted down to the collar around Merlin's throat.

Merlin reached up, on reflex, to press his fingers to the hard metal—and it hurt, it burned, he could feel the blisters burst up on his skin, but he didn't care anymore, because _Morgana's going to attack tomorrow, and I can't fight her, I can't do anything, I can't protect Arthur this time, he's going to die, he's going to die, and it's all my fault._

"So, that's what this was, then?" He pulled his hand away, looked down at his raw and reddened fingers, the swollen pink and white welts, and swallowed a little too hard. "This was part of your plan, too?"

"As I said," Agravaine said, his voice very hushed, "a man must act in his own best interests, must he not?"

Merlin dropped his burned, blistered hands down into his lap, but he still had it in him to lift his head, to look Agravaine in the face. "Morgana is _not_ in your best interests. The moment she has no further need of you, she'll kill you. She's done it before, and what makes you think you'll be any different?"

Agravaine laughed again, and louder this time, fuller. "Oh, Merlin, it seems you forget to whom you speak. Do not think to pull me in with that pretty little face and sweet silver tongue."

"When she _does_ kill you," Merlin hissed, and he leaned in, this time, so close he could feel Agravaine's slow breath on the side of his face, on the side of his neck, "I will _rejoice_ over your bloodied corpse."

"Oh, come now, Merlin, let's not start out like this," Agravaine only frowned at him. "Remember, the moment Morgana regains the throne, you're mine. And it will go far better for you if you make your peace with it _and_ me."

"I will _never_ be _yours_ ," Merlin said, and the collar could never burn as bright as the fire inside him. "I promise, if such a time ever comes, _I will bring this castle to the ground around you_."

"And, no doubt," Agravaine reached out and grabbed him, then, grabbed his wrists, and pinned his hands, hard, to the dirty floor of the small dungeon, and Merlin's breath hooked, sharply, all the way up the back of his throat, _oh, God, no, no, let me go, don't do this, don't do this, let me go,_ "you would look _utterly beautiful_ all the while."

Oh. God. Agravaine was going to do it, wasn't he—oh, Jesus Christ, _Agravaine was really going to do it_ , right here, right now, right in this dungeon, where anybody could come in, where anybody could walk past, where anybody could look in through the thin wooden slats and _see it_ —

 _And they'll know,_ and Merlin didn't think he had it in him to cry anymore, but hot tears still pricked behind his eyes, _they'll know, they'll see it and they'll know, they'll finally know how filthy and disgusting and rotten I am, they'll see it and they'll know, and don't, oh, God, please, don't, please don't let them see, please don't let them know, I'll die before I'll let anybody see this—_

—and Agravaine _climbed up on top_ of Merlin—

— _fight him, I have to fight him, I have to stop him, there's nothing he can do to me anymore if I fight him, there's nothing he can do to me anymore if I throw him off, if I blast him back, if I hurl him halfway across the cell,_ and it took too long, it took far, far too long to remember why that _wouldn't work_ —

—Agravaine _grinded_ down into Merlin on the straw, fast and rough, and oh, God, his cock, already hard as stone, rubbed up Merlin's thighs, Merlin's hips, Merlin's—

— _please, no, please, make it stop, God, please, just make it stop, make him go away, make him get off of me, God, please, just make it stop, just make it end, please, make him change his mind, make him go away, make him stop—_

—Agravaine's hands slid up Merlin's legs to—Jesus Christ, to _cup Merlin_ —

"—no—" Merlin gasped out, and a few of the tears trickled out, and trailed down his cheek, and he couldn't help it, and _fight him, I have to fight him, but I can't, I can't fight him, I can't fight him at all_ —

"Has anyone ever told you," Agravaine murmured, and he pressed a kiss to the thin, wet line of tears down Merlin's face, "you're very beautiful when you cry?"

"—don't—don't t-touch me, just—just leave—just leave me _alone_ —"

Agravaine only clicked his tongue again. "Oh, hush, now, Merlin, you know as well as I do how much you have ached for this," and he stroked and squeezed Merlin through the thin, tight cloth of his breeches, and a soft, reflexive gasp dropped from Merlin's mouth at the touch, but he didn't—no, that wasn't right, because he didn't—he didn't _want_ — _he didn't_ _mean_ —

Agravaine leaned in and kissed Merlin, one last time, before he finally, _oh, thank God, thank Jesus Christ in heaven, if he's really there,_ because Agravaine finally pulled himself back up off Merlin, back up off the straw, and he plucked a stray shred of it off his thick, velvet sleeve, and his lips curved up in that too-sharp, too-sick smile again.

"You," he whispered, with one broad hand already on the door, "are going to make an absolutely _lovely_ concubine."

* * *

Arthur's hands didn't start to shake right in the middle this time. And his throat didn't pull up tight and small and painful this time. And his mouth didn't turn dry and stale as sand this time. And he didn't waver. And he didn't wobble. And he didn't falter. He didn't think he would ever get that last look, back over his shoulder at Merlin in the cell, out of his head—the dirty and tear-streaked and terrified face, and _it was all for you, it was always, always you_ —but he never stopped, he never slipped up, he never let it show for a single moment upon his face as he stared out over the gathered crowd, hundreds and hundreds of miles below him, away from him, and said the words.

Just like his father had said, a hundred thousand times before, word for word, letter for letter.

 _The sorcerer has been found. The sorcerer shall be put to death. The danger has passed. Your safety is assured._

And he barely made it back to his bedchamber before he _broke_ , he _shattered_ , into thousands and thousands of pieces, there on the cold stone floor, his knees pulled tight to his chest and his head in his hands, his fingers tangled up in his hair, in all the knots and gnarls he had never combed out, and _if this is what it is to be a king, if this is what it is, I don't want it, I don't want it at all—_

The door crashed open.

Arthur's heart jolted in his chest and he scrambled all at once back up off the floor, back up on his feet—it didn't matter if he wanted to bear the crown upon his head or not, he was still the King of Camelot in the eyes of her people, and the King of Camelot could not sit around and snivel over a sorcerer—

" _What the fuck is wrong with you?!"_ Gwaine stormed straight into the chamber, and his every step fell loud and heavy as thunder on the cold stone floor, and he snarled in Arthur's face, like a feral beast finally freed from its cage. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! He's your friend! He's your _fucking friend_ , and don't ask _me_ why, because _I don't know_ , I really don't know! He would throw himself from the ramparts before he'd betray you!"

"He had _magic_ , Sir Gwaine," Arthur snapped, and he almost welcomed it, this fierce, fresh burst of fury in his chest, because at least the cold and hollow hole of grief inside him didn't stretch so wide anymore. "He _has_ betrayed me. In the worst and most cowardly way possible."

" _He took a fucking hit from the Dorocha for you!_ He's nearly died because of you a thousand times, do you _really_ think—?!"

" _That's enough_!" Arthur wouldn't hear it again, couldn't hear it again, how well Merlin had played him all these years. "You've had your say, Sir Gwaine. I'll thank you to take your leave now."

And Arthur really thought Gwaine was going to hit him then, to strike him, to slam a fist straight into his open and unprotected face—

—but, instead, Gwaine reached up and ripped the glove from his hand, and he hurled it on the floor like it was a horrible thing—like it was a spider or a snake or a slug—and he grabbed his sword from its sheath at his side with a bright, clear clang of metal.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. He knew the knight in front of him had always had a bit of a flair for the dramatic, but surely, this had to cross a line somewhere. "Sir Gwaine, really—"

"Pick up your sword," Gwaine snarled out, like a dog, like a _beast_ , his rough face twisted up with rage, and his chest heaving, under his mail, "and _fight me_."

"I'm not going to fight you, Gwaine," Arthur said, but he was too _tired_ , suddenly, to put any fire behind it at all. How had it come down to this, how had it come down to his own knight against him, his own knight's blade turned upon him?

Merlin had messed everything up. Merlin had messed it all up.

It always came right back to Merlin in the end, didn't it?

"Then I will strike you where you stand!" Gwaine bellowed, and he lurched forward, with a furious swing of his gleaming blade, and the sharp steel edge missed the skin of Arthur's cheek by mere inches.

Arthur pulled out his sword—he could not, truly, find it in himself to feel angry with Gwaine, he could not even find it in himself to blame Gwaine for this, rash and impulsive and audacious as it was, but he would not simply stand here and let his own knight rain blows down upon him—and he hefted it up to block Gwaine's next strike.

And then the whole world warped into a senseless, spinning blur of blade on blade, too loud and too fast, and Arthur knew he couldn't keep up with it, he knew he would falter or fall within moments, but he still ducked every swing and he parried every blow, blind instinct in place of his usual strength and energy, and his own breath sounded hard and heavy in his ears with the effort and exertion of it, as he weaved around the table, the chairs, the bed, the wardrobe, and thin lines of cold sweat trailed down his forehead, down the side of his face, and _this is madness,_ he thought, the whole time, _this is madness, this is absolute madness, how has everything gone so wrong so quickly, how has everything gotten so bad as all of this_ —?

Arthur's sword clattered to the floor.

It took half a minute to make sense of the sound, the feel of his fingers locked tight around air, around _nothing_ , the brutal triumph and the savage pride on Gwaine's usually kind face, and the sharp tip of Gwaine's sword at his chest, and Arthur couldn't find the fear or the fury he knew he should feel, no, he was far too tired for that, he was far too _empty_ for that, so he only waited—he would _not_ run, _he would not fight_ , there was no honor in that, there was no honor in cowardice, so he only waited for what he knew would come now, what he knew must come now. The glistening point of his own knight's blade would plunge into his body, would pierce him straight to the heart and he would bleed out, he knew, in mere moments, _heartbeats_ , even—

Gwaine stepped back. He shoved his sword back in its scabbard—and with a stiff, jerky hand, like he didn't _want_ to, like he had to, quickly, before he _did_ plunge the glistening point of his blade in Arthur's body, before he _did_ pierce Arthur straight to the heart, except he _should_ do it, he really should, that was the way it went, that was the way it always went, but Arthur didn't know how to say it, how to say _you have to kill me now, don't you understand, you have to kill me now, that's the way it works—_

Gwaine lifted his dark, red-rimmed eyes up to Arthur's face, and he never looked away as he raised up his hand, and unclasped his cloak, and let the bright red cloth flutter down to the floor at his feet.

"Consider this my resignation."

And, without another word, Gwaine turned on his heel and strode from the room, shoulders back and dark, shaggy head held high, and his cloak in a crumpled, tangled heap on the ground behind him.

* * *

 **Notes: honestly why didn't _i_ leave my last job like that? sir gwaine is absolute #goals. **

**So this is a bit of an early update, actually! I didn't expect to get back to this until November, at least, but inspiration really just struck out of absolutely nowhere, so I just let it carry me where it wanted to go, aaaand then it didn't fUCKING SHUT UP for the next 9k words lmao. So it's early, AND super long! is this what it feels like to accomplish something? 'tis a foreign experience for a humble little warlock such as myself.**

 **Not sure when I'll be back - y'all know the drill, the winter holidays are the busiest time of year for me, writing typically takes a backseat until January, and also, I've got a holiday fic in mind this year! really excited about it, actually, i just hope i can get it up in time for Christmas ;A; thank you all so much for all your wonderful, positive, encouraging comments on this fic! i honestly can't believe it, i was so blown away to see the response these last few chapters received! thank you guys so, so much!**


	13. Caught in a War I Never Meant to Wage

"Was I a monster from the start?

How did I end up with this frozen heart?

Bringing destruction to the stage,

Caught in a war that I never meant to wage."

\- _Monster_ , Caissie Levy

* * *

Merlin had to _get out_.

He didn't really have very much choice in it anymore—night had fallen, really fallen, and the sky had gone dark and the moon had come out and the stars had come out and he had to get out of here, _he had to get out of here_.

If he didn't get out—if he didn't get out right now, right this second, if he couldn't—if he didn't—if he failed—

If he failed, there would be no one to stop Morgana when she made her move—and she _would_ make her move, Agravaine had said it, Agravaine had said so—and there would be no one to stop her when she marched on Camelot, when she claimed the crown and the throne and the kingdom, when she—when she _killed Arthur_ , and _I have to stop her, I have to do it, I'm the only one who can do it, I'm the only one who can fight her, fire with fire and magic with magic, I'm the only one who can do it, I'm the only one who will do it, there's no one else, there's just no one else, there's just no one else but me, it's all on me, and if I don't stop her, if I don't get out and stop her_ —

Merlin clawed at the collar again—and he knew it wouldn't do any good, he _knew_ he couldn't get it off, God, how many times had he tried now? How many times had he pulled and yanked and wrenched at the heavy iron ring, and how many times had he _failed_ , but he _couldn't_ fail, he couldn't give up, he could _never give up_ , not now, not _ever_ —

— _if I give up, Arthur will die,_ and he knew he'd burn away every last layer of the filthy, scarred-up skin of his hands on the hot metal at his throat before he let that happen, before he would back down, before he would let anything in this whole world ever hurt Arthur again, so he had to get out, _get out, God, please, just let me out, let me get out, and I'll make this right, I swear, I'll make this right, I'll find a way, I'll find a way because I have to find a way, because there's no one else, it's just me, I'm the only one, I'm the only one who can save him, no one else can save him, God, please, just let me save him,_ and how many times had Merlin tried that, now, too, how many times had he said it, to the Triple Goddess, to the Maiden and the Mother and the Crone, one after another, one by one, and to the distant, unknown god in the chapel on the heavy wooden cross, the god he did not even believe in—to a hundred thousand gods he did not even believe in.

He grabbed for the collar again—fresh blisters burst up on his fingers, but he only gritted his teeth and held on tighter—he had to do this, he _had_ to, he had to get the collar off, he had to get his magic back, he had to _get out of here_ , or Camelot would be completely on its own, and _Arthur_ would be completely on _his_ own and he couldn't let that happen, he could never, _ever_ let that happen—

"Hey, mate, really hate to have to bear the bad news like this—"

Merlin snapped his head up, his burned hands still locked around the metal, and his heart all the way up in the back of his throat—and _oh, God, please don't let him look at me, don't let him look at me, don't let him see me, don't let him see me like this,_ and that shouldn't have been the first thing in his head, that shouldn't have been a thing in his head at all, not with Arthur's life on the line, because that was what mattered, that was all that mattered—

"Looked pretty hacked off, too, said he 'spects you in the throne room right quick." Gwaine dropped his voice down to a whisper and leaned in a bit closer to Lionel. "I'd think about haulin' ass if I were you. He's really not in the best of moods."

The guard—Lionel, the one who had always smiled and called out a quick, cheerful hello when Merlin rushed past him on the way to wake Arthur, the one who had always winked and whispered nah, not to worry, I won't tell, when he caught Merlin with a stolen sweet from the castle kitchens—Lionel hesitated. "I—I cannot leave the sorcerer unguarded, Sir Gwaine," he said, reluctantly, "Donovan will relieve me in—"

Gwaine scoffed. " _Unguarded_?" he echoed, incredulously, and raised his eyebrows. "You've got the bloke locked up in a cell, for God's sake! Sounds pretty guarded to me! What's he going to do from all the way in there? _Prophecy_ us all to death?"

Merlin flinched and his heart ached, and _please, not this, not Gwaine, please, I can't take it, I just can't, I just can't take it again, please—_

Lionel sputtered—in the low light of the fires, it looked like he had gone a bit red in the face. "Sorcerers are wily and devious, Sir Gwaine! We must proceed with all caution while he remains in confinement! We have merely contained the threat! The kingdom will not truly be safe until—"

"All right, all right," Gwaine held up a hand—oh, he didn't—he didn't have his gloves on, now that Merlin looked a little bit closer, and he didn't have his cloak or his mail, and what had happened, where had it all gone, where had all his—all his knight stuff gone—? "You know what? I'll handle him 'til you get back. How's that?"

— _no, please, don't do that, don't do that, don't let him stay here, don't leave me with him, don't leave me alone with him, I can't do it again, I can't take it again—_

"Sir Gwaine," Lionel said, but a bit hesitantly, "I don't think you comprehend how serious this is. He has magic, and—"

"And I have a sword, yes," Gwaine jerked his chin down in a nod, "think I'll manage. Good! Real glad we got that cleared up!" He clapped Lionel, hard, on the shoulder, and he practically pushed the baffled guard away from the door and down the long corridor. "Go on, then!"

"—ah—well—Sir Gwaine, you have my thanks, most assuredly, but I really don't believe it would be—"

"Hey, hey, don't worry about it!" Gwaine waved him off with a broad smile. "Tell you what, just grab me a drink later, and we'll call it even, right?"

"—oh—erm—thank you very much, Sir Gwaine—"

And, God, Merlin just wanted to shut his eyes or clamp his hands over his ears or bury himself, deep as he could, in the scratchy heap of dirty straw, because he couldn't take it again, he just couldn't take it again, it would be Arthur all over again, and he knew he wasn't strong enough for that, he just knew he wasn't strong enough for that again, he just knew he wasn't strong enough to hear how Gwaine hated him, now, too, he knew he wasn't strong enough to see Gwaine look at him the way Lionel had looked at him, the way Sir Ector had looked at him, the way _Arthur_ had looked at him—

But Lionel had already started off down the dark hall.

The light clink and clank of the guard's heavy armor got fainter—fainter—fainter—until, at last, the sound of it faded away into silence.

Lionel was gone.

— _no, please, I can't do it, I can't hear it, I can't hear it when he says he hates me—_

"Right." Gwaine whirled around to look in past the thin wooden slats of the door, and he—

—he _smiled_? No, no, he _did_ , he _really did_ , he really _did_ smile, just there, and right at Merlin, too. "You ready to get out of there?"

Wait. What?

"—don't really have a shitload of time on our hands here—" and Gwaine pulled out a key—or, no, wait, it wasn't a key, actually, it wasn't a key at all, or, at least, it wasn't the key to the dungeons, no, Merlin had nicked it enough to know—the key to the dungeons was all old and rusted and dark, and a little bit warped, now, with the age of it, and this one was long and straight and shiny—it gleamed, in Gwaine's fingers, under the weak, warm light of the fires—but Gwaine jammed the Not-Key right into the lock anyway, and he jiggled it up and down, like he wanted to—like he wanted to _open_ —

"What are—what are you—what—?"

Gwaine grinned at Merlin, but he never took his hands off the Not-Key. "Let's get you out of there, yeah? We can work out where we're headed later—if you've got ideas, I'm open, 'course, but right now, we just need to—"

Merlin blinked. "I have magic," he said, because it really, really looked like Gwaine hadn't heard about that bit. Or maybe he _had_ heard about it, and he just didn't believe it, and, oh, God, that would be—that would be _worse_ , somehow, that would be—that would be—that would be Arthur _all over again_ —

"Oh, yeah, yeah," Gwaine nodded. "Picked up on that bit, actually, believe it or not." He twisted the Not-Key one last time, and the lock finally clicked. He pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. "Come on," he held out a hand, and jerked his chin at the door, "what do you say we get out of here, huh?"

All right, well, obviously, the truth hadn't really hit Gwaine yet, or maybe he just hadn't had time for it to actually sink in all the way, because if he had, if it _had_ hit him, if it _had_ sunk in, he would have—he would start to—he would be—

"I have _magic_ ," Merlin said, again, because it just didn't feel fair to—well, to _exploit_ Gwaine like this, to let Gwaine do all of this for him when—when he was— "I'm a _sorcerer_."

"Merlin," Gwaine said, "look, time is _really_ not on our side, all right? Don't get me wrong, the magic's great, can't wait to see more of it, you are going to show me so many spells as soon as we're out of here—"

 _Oh_ —no, it wasn't right, it couldn't be right, he had it wrong, he had it all wrong, and God, Merlin's heart hurt, with the sudden burst of hope, bright as a fire, in his chest, because it just couldn't be right, and it was stupid, it was so stupid, to think Gwaine really might—

"—but you gotta get up, and you gotta come with me first or you'll—wait," Gwaine broke off, sharply, and his warm brown eyes narrowed, and he leaned in a little closer to Merlin, "what the _hell_ is _that_?" He tapped a finger on the side of his own neck.

"Oh," a hot flush flooded Merlin's face, and he wanted to—to throw his hands over it, he wanted to hide it, to cover it up, just cover it up—it was the last thing he wanted in the world, for Gwaine to see him like this, for any of his friends to see him like this, caged and collared like an animal, like a—like a _monster_ , "it's—it's nothing—"

"Arthur," Gwaine hissed out through his teeth, "is a _fucking bastard."_

" _Gwaine!"_ Merlin said sharply. "That's not fair! You don't understand! He's just trying to protect Camelot from—"

"From _you_?!"

"—I—I don't—" Hot tears burned behind Merlin's eyes, and the dungeon blurred around him— _he really does think I'm dangerous, he really does think I'm a monster, he really does think he needs to shut me away in a cage just to keep Camelot safe_ —

"I can't—" Gwaine shook his head, "—I can't _fucking believe_ —wait, no, actually, I _can_ , he's a _fucking bastard_ —"

"Stop it," Merlin said, but his throat had pulled so tight with the tears he didn't know if Gwaine could even hear him at all, "stop it, Gwaine, he's just trying to—to do what's—what's r-right—" _and he thinks this is what's right, he really thinks this is what's right, and what if it is, what if, maybe, this is for the best, after all I've done, after all the innocent people I've hurt, after all the lives I've taken—_

"Hey, hey," Gwaine put a warm, strong hand on Merlin's shoulder, "hey, come on, don't—don't do that, just—sorry, look, I'm sorry. Here, tip your head back for me, all right? Let's get a better look at that. I'll see what I can do."

Merlin's stomach jolted, and he stepped back—well, stumbled back, really, his legs hadn't wanted to hold him up for the last four hours or so, and he really did throw a hand over the collar this time, he curled his fingers around the thick metal, and he didn't care how it burned him. He couldn't stand back and let Gwaine get hurt like this. "No, no, don't—you can't—you can't touch it—see—" he took his hand off, and held his palm up—the blisters looked very red against his white skin, "—it _burns_ —it blocks up my magic, see, and—"

"— _burns—?"_

"—don't—" Merlin shook his head, because he knew that look on Gwaine's face better than anyone, better than Percival, even, "—don't freak out, Gwaine, don't go flying off the rail—"

"—I'm not flying off the rail! No one's flying off the rail! Nah, he's only gone and put a _fucking torture thing_ around your fucking throat, why would I go flying off the rail about—!"

"—stop it, Gwaine, don't—!"

"—just—let me—God, Merlin, stop fighting me! It's hurting you! Look at your hands! _Fucking look_ at _your hands_ , I can't let it keep hurting you!"

—and Gwaine grabbed for the collar again, and this time, he finally got his fingers 'round the iron ring, and he—

—he _didn't_ get burned.

 _Oh._

"But—" Merlin stared blankly down at Gwaine's very un-blistered hand, "—but—I don't understand, it—it should have—it really should have—it really _does_ —I _know_ it really does—"

"I think," Gwaine said, and very tightly, too—it just didn't sound right on him, it just didn't sound right on him at all— "this thing isn't meant to hurt anyone but sorcerers."

Oh. Right. Yeah. That made sense. That made a lot of sense, actually, because Sir Dinadan had touched it, hadn't he, all the way back in Arthur's chambers, when he had put it down on the table with the crystal and the mirror and the manticore portal, and _Arthur_ had touched it, too, when he had—when he had clasped it around Merlin's neck—and now Gwaine—but this was different than Sir Ector, and this was different than Arthur, because Gwaine was trying to _help_ —

"Thank you," Merlin said, but choked, and hoarse, and a little bit breathless, too, and he knew he shouldn't, oh, God, he knew he shouldn't, he knew this was wrong, this was bad, this could get Gwaine killed, he had just betrayed his king, he had just betrayed _Arthur_ , but— "thank you, Gwaine, _thank you_ —"

"Don't count your chickens." Gwaine leaned in a little closer, and he scrunched his eyes up in a squint to find the collar's latch, in the dark of the dungeons. " _This_ is going to be the easy bit. Gotta get you out of here and all."

Merlin's heart jumped in his chest—oh, God, this was real, this was _really real_ , all of it, he just couldn't believe it, he just couldn't believe— _Gwaine doesn't hate me, Gwaine doesn't hate me at all, and he'll get my magic back to me and he'll let me out of here and I'll stop Morgana and I'll save Arthur and everything will turn out all right, everything will really turn out all right, oh, God, I just can't believe it, we're really going to make it—_

"—yeah, already got us some food," Gwaine barreled on, and locked his fingers around the latch, "and I reckon it should last us to the border, at least—"

Wait _. What?_

"To the border?" Merlin echoed, and he stepped back a bit, until Gwaine's fingers fell from the collar. That warm, bright burst of hope in his heart dimmed right back down to dark again—he had thought Gwaine knew, he had thought Gwaine just _understood,_ but—but _this_ — "What do you mean 'to the border'?"

"Of Camelot?" Gwaine reached for the collar again and raised his eyebrows. "Can't exactly hang 'round here too long, Merls, you're a wanted man, and even the Princess can put two and two together—well, on a really good day, at least."

"You want me to _leave_?" No. He couldn't. That was _not_ a choice off the list here, that wasn't on the table, that wasn't in the cards, he couldn't leave, he just couldn't leave, not with Morgana—not with _Agravaine_ —

Gwaine scoffed. "Leave? No. I _don't_ want you to leave. I don't want you to have to leave here, I want you to be _happy_ —"

 _Oh._

"—but—" Gwaine blew out a hard breath, "—but I want you to be _free_ , too. And I want you to be _safe_. And that—" he shook his head, "— _that's not going to happen here_ , Merlin. That's not going to happen here, not ever again, not for you."

And, oh, Merlin actually let himself think about it—for one small and selfish moment, Merlin really let himself think about it, and he—oh, he _wanted_ it, he really, actually wanted it, so much, more than he had ever known he could even want anything at all, he just wanted to rush right out of this horrid little cell and he wanted to—God, he wanted to _hug_ Gwaine, he _really_ wanted to actually hug Gwaine, and he wanted to say, _yes, please, yes to all of that, to every last little bit, yes, please, just take me away from here, please, I don't want to die, I don't want to get burned, I just want to be safe, God, I just want to be safe again, because I can't remember what it feels like to feel safe, not anymore, not since Agravaine_ —

—but—

—but Agravaine. And Morgana.

And he couldn't turn his back on Camelot.

He couldn't turn his back on _Arthur_.

"Gwaine," Merlin said, softly, maybe because he didn't really want Gwaine to hear him, maybe because he didn't really want Gwaine to listen to him at all, "I can't."

"What?" Gwaine frowned. "What are you talkin' about? 'Course you can. See, look, door's wide open, all that's left is to get that thing off your neck, and get out of here," he tugged, lightly, at Merlin's wrist, "before that guy at the door shows back up again—"

"Gwaine." Merlin pulled his hand away. "I can't." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. But I can't."

"No, no, don't—" Gwaine shook his head, "—don't do this, come on, you can't do this, you can't—you have to—"

"No." Merlin swallowed. "I have to stay here. Morgana's going to—" he shut his eyes and sucked in a long breath, "—she's going to attack Camelot. Tomorrow. If I leave now, there won't be anyone to stop her. Swords can only do so much against her magic."

"No!" Gwaine nearly screamed it in Merlin's face. "No! If you actually think you're going to do that, you'd better think again, because I'm not going to just stand back and let you—!"

"All right, then, fine," Merlin snapped, and maybe a little too sharp, maybe a little too _mean_ , "you go on, then, and find us another sorcerer who will actually _help_ Camelot. Go on. I'll wait."

"Why the hell do _you_ want to help Camelot?" Gwaine jabbed a finger, hard, into Merlin's chest. "Huh? Look at what this place has done to you! You don't owe this kingdom cold shit!"

"This is not about 'owing'!" Merlin smacked Gwaine's hand away. " _This_ is about _Morgana_ , because, maybe you haven't noticed, but she has this really nasty habit of just murdering everybody she doesn't like! And I'm not going to sit back and let her! _Innocent people are in danger_!"

For half a moment, Merlin thought Gwaine hadn't even _heard_ him, really, he thought Gwaine hadn't even listened to him at all—hell, for half a moment, he thought Gwaine would just go on and yell a bit more, or shove him right back in his cell and lock the door and say _fine, then, if that's how you're going to be, you can stay in here forever_ —but—

"You know what, Merlin?" Gwaine rubbed hard at the bridge of his nose, and a sigh slipped out of his open mouth. "You're the best goddamned person who's ever set foot in this castle. And I really fucking hate that about you."

Merlin's stomach did a sharp, horrid jolt— _best goddamned person, the best goddamned person, and he actually thinks that, doesn't he, oh, God, he actually thinks I'm a good person, he actually thinks I'm the best, but if he knew all the rest, if he knew all the secrets still in the shadows, if he knew the truth, the real truth, the whole truth, he would think I was rotten, he would know I was rotten and filthy and dirty and bad—_

"Yeah. Well." Merlin swallowed. He thought about Agravaine's dark eyes and hungry hands and _oh, so you do like it a bit rough, don't you, Merlin,_ and _can't you take a compliment, Merlin_ and _you're beautiful, absolutely divine_ and _I don't know a man alive who could resist those lovely blue bed-me eyes_ and _if I was the "best goddamned person", if I had any good inside of me at all, that wouldn't have happened, none of that would have ever happened_ — "Don't count your chickens."

"Right, so," Gwaine lifted his head, with one last, tired little breath, "come on, let's have another go at that thing, yeah?" He tapped at the side of his own neck. "And you can fill me in on the plan you've got."

Merlin winced. "Uh. Well."

"Oh. Great." Gwaine nodded, and grabbed for the collar again. "No plan. Best kind, if you ask me."

"—well—um—" Merlin scratched the back of his neck, "—you don't have to do anything, not yet, just hang onto your sword, get into your armor, and be ready to fight, she's sure to have an army or something—"

"Uh, right, yeah, about that," Gwaine fumbled with the latch, but it didn't look like he had opened it yet, "my armor's gone, actually, so, that bit's pretty good and scuppered, but—"

"What?" Merlin frowned. "What do you mean, your armor's gone? How did you manage to _lose_ that stuff? It's on you, like, all day, every day! And! It _shines_!"

"All right, first off, I didn't 'lose' any of it, I just turned it all in—"

" _Turned it all in_?"

"Oh, yeah, hang on, did I forget to tell you that bit? Yeah, I'm not a knight anymore."

" _What?!"_ Oh, no, this just got worse and worse by the moment, didn't it? Merlin knew Gwaine and Arthur had never really seen eye-to-eye on—well—much of anything, actually, but—but _this_ — "Arthur sacked you?!"

Gwaine snorted. Loudly. "No, _I_ sacked _myself_. Turns out, it's not really my brew of mead, you know? Can't serve a king who turns his back on his friends like that."

"No!" Merlin knew he said it too loudly, he knew he had nearly shouted it, really, but he just—he just couldn't let Gwaine do this, he just couldn't let Gwaine take the life he had built up here, and throw it all away, not for— _not for me_ — "No, you can't—you can't do this! You have to go back! You have to get Arthur to take you back! Say you're sorry, tell him you changed your mind, tell him you want back in—"

"I _haven't_ changed my mind, though," Gwaine broke in, sharply, "and I _don't_ want back in. And _I'm not fucking sorry_."

"—you can't do this, please, Gwaine, don't do this—" _oh, God, this is my fault, this is all my fault, look at what I've done now, just look at what I've done, this is all because of me, Gwaine turned against Arthur because of me, Gwaine's going to leave Arthur because of me, Arthur has lost a knight and a friend because of me, because I'm rotten and it spills over and bursts out on anybody who gets too close to me, on everybody who gets too close to me—_

"Hey, hey, look at me, Merlin, look at me," Gwaine bumped Merlin's chin up, lightly, with a gentle tap of his knuckles. "It's just a job, yeah? Pretty sure I can find another."

"—but—" _but it wasn't just a job, it wasn't, it was an honor, and it was for the best and the bravest in this whole kingdom, and you're one of them, you're one of the best, you're one of the bravest, and you just threw it away like it was nothing, because of me, all because of me,_ "—but you _loved_ it," Merlin said, numbly, because it was all he could say, it was all he could think to say.

Gwaine laughed. "No, I love a good fight, that's what I love. And I reckon I can find a good fight in just about any old tavern. But a friend like you? Now that's one in a million, Merls. And I'd be mad to give it up."

Oh. And he _really did mean that_ , didn't he, Gwaine really did mean that, all of it, and he had really—he had really done this, he had really done all of this, for Merlin, just for Merlin, he had gone and given up everything he had ever had for Merlin, he had thrown his whole life away for Merlin, and he would have—if Merlin had let him, if Merlin hadn't stopped him, if Merlin hadn't said no—he would have fled the kingdom for Merlin, too.

He would have done it. He _really_ would have done it, no plan, no place to go, nothing but the clothes on his back and the food he had said he had nicked—

"Merlin," Gwaine said, in a very not-Gwaine sort of way, and his fingers slipped off the collar again, "I—I don't think—" he bit his lip, and ducked his head down to look at it a little closer, "—I don't think this thing is coming off."

Merlin's stomach dropped. "What?" _Not coming off?_ No, that didn't make any sense, that didn't make any sense at all, just a flick of the latch, and it would—it would just—

"See, look, right here," Gwaine traced a finger, lightly, over the metal, "look, there's all this—well," he dropped his hand back to his side, "you _can't_ see it, I s'pose, but it's—" he swallowed, "—it's got, uh—" he snapped his dark eyes up to Merlin's face, "—it's got burn marks."

"Burn marks?" Merlin echoed. "But what does all that have to do with—?"

"I don't think—" and Gwaine wouldn't look at him anymore, Gwaine wouldn't look at him at all, "—I don't think it's meant to come off until—" he looked at the wall, at the window, at the door, at the straw-strewn ground, anywhere but at Merlin, "—until the sorcerer who's got it on is—"

 _Oh._ It crashed over Merlin like a wave, and his insides turned to ice. "Burned," he said, in a whisper, because he already knew Gwaine wouldn't say it, he already knew Gwaine _couldn't_ say it, and he couldn't say it, either, except like this, so quiet he could hardly hear it for himself. "Until the sorcerer who's got it on is burned."

Gwaine nodded.

 _No, no, that's not right, that's not true, please, it has to come off, I have to get it off, I have to get my magic back, how am I meant to stop Morgana like this, how am I meant to save Arthur like this—?_

"I-I'm sorry," Gwaine whispered, "I just— _God_ , I'm sorry, Merlin—"

"Don't—" Merlin shook his head—he didn't know if he even had it in him, to say anything right now, to say anything ever again, but this wasn't Gwaine's fault, this was actually the exact opposite of Gwaine's fault, really, all of it, and Gwaine had come along and tried to fix it, "—don't, Gwaine, really, you've—you've done more than enough."

And that was true, wasn't it? Gwaine had come all the way down here to _save_ him, to take him away from here, to take him somewhere safe—

Oh.

Wait.

That was it. Wasn't it?

"Gwaine," Merlin said, and that warm, bright burst of hope flared up again, inside of him—he would be damned if he let a stupid ring of metal stand in his way, after all of this, "you said you had enough food to last us to the border. Right?"

"Uh, yeah," Gwaine blinked, and his mouth edged down in a frown, but he nodded anyway, "yeah, but—but hang on, now, you said—"

"I know," Merlin held up a hand to stop him, "I know what I said, but this isn't about me, I'm not asking for me, I—I think—" he swallowed, "—I think we need to get Arthur out of the kingdom."

"Oh! Yes!" Gwaine broke out in a broad smile. "Yes! Now you're talking, Merls! Let's depose the bastard and get that—"

"No!" Oh, God, that was even worse than what Merlin had come up with. "No deposing! That's not what I meant!"

Gwaine deflated, like a ship with all the wind let suddenly out of its sails. "Oh. Are you sure? Because that sounded like a pretty clear-cut deposition plan right there, and I really think you might warm up to it if you just—"

" _Gwaine,"_ Merlin said, sharply, and held up his hand again, "we are _not_ deposing Arthur, and _that's final_. We're going to get him out of the kingdom, _for his own safety_ , before Morgana attacks. It's too dangerous to let him hang 'round here. If she gets her hands on him, she'll kill him, and we _cannot let that happen_."

"For his own safety?" Gwaine echoed, incredulously, and raised his eyebrows. "And how the hell are we supposed to do that? He'd eat every tapestry in the castle before he'd run from a fight. Especially with Camelot on the line."

"Uh—well—" Merlin dragged in a breath—if he did this, if he _really_ did this, if he really went through with this, Arthur would never forgive him, not for this, not ever, no, Arthur would hate him, always, forever— _and I'll never get the chance to make things right with him, I'll never get the chance to tell him I'm sorry, I'll never get the chance to tell him this is all for him, this has always been for him—_

But.

But that didn't matter. Really. That didn't matter at all, right? No, of course not, and it was just selfish of him to even _think_ —no, he just had to make sure Arthur was still alive to _not_ forgive him and always hate him, that was it, that was all that mattered, really, just so long as Arthur made it out all right, that was all that had ever mattered at all.

And this wouldn't be the first friend Merlin had ever lost.

"—well, I—" Merlin swallowed, hard, and he tried not to think about how furious Arthur would look, when he finally realized, when he finally knew, "—I think we're—erm, you, actually, just you, not we—not me—I can't really be seen around the castle anymore, so just—just you, then—you're going to need to dose him with one of Gaius' sleeping draughts. With one of Gaius' _really strong_ sleeping draughts—" God knew Arthur slept like the dead half the damn time, but better safe than sorry, with the stakes so high, "—and then get him out of the kingdom."

"Oh, he'll just _love_ that," Gwaine muttered.

"It's just until Camelot's safe again," Merlin said, but his stomach still twisted up in a hundred thousand too-tight knots— _I'll never get the chance to make things right with him, I'll never get the chance to tell him this is all for him_. "Just get him out of the castle—the Forest of Essetir should be far enough," he stooped to pick his ragged red scarf up off the filthy floor under his feet—a small thing, a stupid thing, but if he was going to get out of here, if he was really going to get out of here, he didn't want anyone to see him like this, he didn't want anyone to see him the way Gwaine had—caged and collared, like an animal, like a monster, "And I promise, I'll come and find you as soon as Morgana—"

"Come find us?" Gwaine narrowed his eyes. "Oh, hell, no, Merlin, you're mad if you think I'm going to hide out with him for God knows how long while _you're_ in the middle of—!"

"Please, Gwaine," Merlin grabbed at his friend's wrist with shaking fingers, "please, he needs someone to look after him, and I—I won't—" he swallowed, hard, and his eyes burned and prickled again, "—I won't be there."

 _And he wouldn't want me there, even if I was._

"This is mad. You don't even have your _magic_ anymore!" Gwaine jabbed a finger at the collar. "You can't tell me you really think you can take on Morgana like _that_!"

"Gwaine," Merlin said, sharply, and he knew he didn't have a chance—not even half a chance, not without his magic, not with the horrid collar still locked around his throat, not with the raw and enormous power Morgana held inside her, and if he fell into her hands, that was it, that was all, it would be over, it would all be over because he would never live to see another sunrise, not ever, and he _knew_ that, he knew it, but—

"I _have_ to _try_."

* * *

Merlin rushed down the dark corridors, to the wild, too-fast thump of his own terrified heart, loud as a hammer, loud as a drum, and the dull thud of his thin, worn boots on the hard, uneven stone floor under his feet, and the thick shadows all around him, all over him, and the sharp scream of his own magic inside of him, and _how am I meant to stop Morgana like this, how am I meant to save Camelot like this, how am I meant to do anything like this, really, how am I meant to be any good to anyone at all when I'm stuck like this, and I can't, I just can't, I can't do it, not without my magic, but I have to do it, I have to, I have to try, I'm the only one, there's no one else, there's just me, that's it, I'm it, I'm the only one—_

—he turned the last corner—

—and he crashed straight into—

—straight into—

— _oh—_

Merlin stopped.

And he knew he shouldn't, he knew it was the worst thing he could do, really, right now, it was just the absolute worst thing he could do, because now she would run off and raise the alarm, or she would scream for the knights, and he should run, he knew he should just _run_ , as far as he could, as fast as he could, he knew he should push past her, knock her down, if he had to, if that was what it would take, and _run,_ just run, he had to run, he had to get to Morgana, _he had to stop Morgana_ —but—

But.

See.

Gwen didn't run off to raise the alarm. Actually.

And, also, she didn't scream for the knights.

No, she just sort of stood there, in the middle of the corridor, and she stared at him, her dark, warm eyes very wide in her brown, pretty face, and a small, wooden bowl clutched in her hands, and her brows arched up a bit, and her mouth half-open—

"Merlin?!" But she still didn't run off, and she still didn't scream, no, she didn't even _step back_ , and why—? "What are you doing? You're meant to be—!"

 _Executed_ —that was what Gwen would say, wasn't it, yes, that was exactly what Gwen would say— _executed, burned, tossed on a pyre and lit up like a match, and a good thing, too, there will be one less monster in the world,_ and Merlin's stomach clenched just to think of it, of how she would look when she said—

Except she _didn't_ say, she didn't say anything else at all, because the window shattered, just then—no, no, wait, that wasn't right—the window exploded, actually, it just blew up, in a sudden storm, in an absolute avalanche of—of _sound_ , of sound after sound after awful, echoing, inescapable sound, and so _loud_ , Merlin thought, for a moment, it might end the whole world around them, it really might end the whole world around them, it would tear the earth apart, it would split the sky in two—

A hundred thousand shards of broken glass blasted back, out of the window's thick frame, and into the narrow corridor, and the pieces all glittered, like diamonds, like crystals, in the light of the stars, in the light of the moon, sharp as daggers, sharp as swords, in a sparkling, deadly rain, ready to fall, right on—right onto—

" _Gwen!"_

Merlin didn't really think about it—because he didn't _need_ to think about it, he didn't need to think about it at all—so he didn't know he was going to do it, not at all, not until he was on the floor, very suddenly, with Gwen under him, and her warm, small body pulled tight to him, to his chest—and _he_ had done that, right, he had done it, he had grabbed her and dragged her to him, except he didn't really remember that bit at all—and the soft skirt of her long dress pooled out in a pale purple puddle on the cold stone, and he had his hands on her head, he had his dirty fingers half-tangled in her dark curls, and when he raised his head, he could see the glass, all around, a scattered silver trail of it, like a river in a map, on and on down the corridor, and the bowl in Gwen's hands, the wood had not broken, but it had fallen over on its side, and the food within had spilled out in a smooth brown streak along the floor.

"Are you—?" Merlin trembled, all over, with the shock of it, but he pushed himself up, off of her, and he dropped his hands and he let her go. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?" He couldn't see any blood, any break in her skin, any glass in her flesh, but—

"No, I—" Gwen got up, and she trembled, too, just like him, and he could see it, in her hand, when she put her palm flat to her heart, "I—I don't think so, I think I'm all right, I just—" she glanced at the window, at the glass on the ground, and back to the window again, "—Merlin, what _happened_?"

Merlin looked at the window, too. He could see the black sky, and the white snow, and the—oh, the houses down there, the _homes_ , all lit up with warmth, with the golden glow of a fire in the hearth, and _this is why I have to do it, this is why I have to try, this is why I have to fight Morgana, even if I don't think I can, for them, for all the people down there._

"I think," he said, and slowly, too slowly, maybe because he didn't want it to be true, "Morgana just fired her first shot." His insides turned to ice before he had even pushed the last word off his lips. He had thought he would have more _time_ , he had thought he would have more time than this, he had thought he had until the first light of the new dawn, at least, and by then, Arthur would be out of the castle, out of the city, and that was all that mattered, that was all that had ever mattered, at all, but he had it wrong, he had it all wrong, because he always, always had it _wrong_ , and she was here, now, and _by this time tomorrow, Camelot will have a new ruler,_ that was what Agravaine had said, that was exactly what Agravaine had said—

" _Morgana?"_ Gwen stopped. "She's _here_?"

"I don't—" Merlin shook his head, "—I don't know, she was meant to—she was meant to be—" he stepped over the glass, over the upturned wooden bowl, to get to the window, and he trailed his fingers lightly down the sharp edges of the shattered shards still stuck inside the thick, stone frame—maybe he couldn't cast a spell of his own anymore, but he could feel the remnants of the magic in the glass— _dark_ magic, _evil_ magic, and a shudder crawled down his spine, just to _touch_ it—

Yes.

Morgana was here.

"But—" Gwen got to her feet, and dusted off the long skirt of her pale dress, "—but how would she have gotten in?"

Merlin's stomach jumped and jolted, because he _knew_ —he had thought Morgana would just go and find herself a different way, a new way, a better way, and she would launch her attack before he had time to work out the plan, to work out a way to stop it, to stop her, but that was wrong, wasn't it, because he always, _always_ had it _wrong_ —

"The siege tunnels."

Morgana had gone ahead and gone through the siege tunnels.

Because she had known, hadn't she—no, no, she hadn't _known_ , she had _planned_ —she had done this, all of this, all of it, she had made sure this would happen, she had made sure this would all happen—the crystal and Arthur and Agravaine and _the collar_ , and she hadn't needed to find a new way, then, a better way, because she knew he _couldn't stop her_ —

Merlin turned away from the window to look at Gwen. "You need to get out of here." He didn't really have to think about it. He didn't really have to think about it at all. Maybe he couldn't stop Morgana, not like this, but he could still save his friends.

But it didn't matter, because Gwen didn't look like she had even heard Merlin at all. "If Morgana's here, then, we'll need to warn Arthur, that's the most important thing, obviously," she nodded, a bit, to herself, "we need to get to him, and tell him everything we know—maybe we can—"

"No," Merlin said, and maybe a little bit too sharply, "we _can't_. I already tried it that way, trust me, he's not going to listen. Just get out of here. Get to Gwaine—he should be in Arthur's chambers by now—he'll help you, he'll get you out of the castle, he'll get you somewhere safe—"

"Somewhere _safe_?" Gwen echoed, a little bit blankly. "What—no, we can't—! I can't—! If we give in now, the battle is already over, and Morgana has already won! The knights of Camelot are among the finest soldiers in the five kingdoms, they've triumphed over Morgana once already—"

"The _knights_?" Merlin almost laughed at that— _oh, Gwen, if you only knew_ —but the sharp, sick fear in the bottom of his stomach just wouldn't let him. "The knights didn't 'triumph', Gwen, you can't 'triumph' over magic unless _you've_ got—!" _Magic, unless you've got magic of your own, unless you've got magic for yourself, unless you can fight fire with fire,_ but he didn't say it, because he couldn't say it, he couldn't look at Gwen and say it, he couldn't say it and see all the fury there in her face, all the hatred, all the hurt, all the betrayal, he couldn't say it and see the ashes of all the bridges he had ever burned behind her eyes.

But Gwen didn't _need_ him to say it, did she—just like she hadn't needed him to say what had really happened on the Isle of the Blessed that night, how Lancelot had _really_ died. "Oh," she said, very softly, and her eyes had gone very wide in her face again, "oh, Merlin, _you_ —?"

 _You're just as bad as Morgana,_ maybe that was what she would say, _you're just as bad as Morgana, you're just like her, you have magic, just like her, so you're just as bad as her, you're just like her because you've got—_

" _You_ did that?" She tipped her head at him. "You _saved_ us?"

 _Saved?_ No, that wasn't—that didn't—no, no, that didn't really fit in with all the rest of it, that just _didn't fit in_ with all the rest of it, and where was the—where was all the—where was all the rage? All the betrayal? All the _how could you do this to me, to Arthur, to everyone, how could you lie us to like this for so long_? Wasn't she mad at him? Wasn't she furious with him? _Didn't she hate him_?

"I-I mean—" she put her hand to her chest again, "—I mean, I _knew_ , when I heard, when Arthur—you've always been so—and when he's with you, _he's_ always—he always gets—and good things always happen when you're here—"

 _Good things._ Merlin's throat pulled tight again. No. Gwen had it wrong. Gwen had it all wrong. He had never made "good things" happen, not ever, not once in his life, and even if he had, it wouldn't matter, because all the bad would still always be there to cancel it right back out again.

"—and we _always_ win, every time, even when we really _shouldn't_ , but I—I never—you really _did_ save us," she flicked her brown eyes up to his, "didn't you? When Morgana and Morgause—and Cenred—?"

"I—I don't—I didn't—" _I didn't, really, or, well, maybe I did, sort of, but I had help, I had a lot of help, from Freya and Kilgharrah and Gaius, and really, the Cup was the easy bit, actually, it was the guards we had to watch out for,_ only he didn't get the chance to say it, he didn't get a chance to say any of it, because Gwen bounded forward, past the glass and the bowl to get to the window, to get to _him_ , and she—

—she—

— _oh—_

She _hugged_ him.

Like she _didn't hate him_ , like she didn't hate him at all, like maybe she never had, even when she had heard—even when Arthur had told her—and _maybe it's like Gwaine, maybe it's just like Gwaine, maybe she doesn't mind, either, maybe she doesn't care, maybe she's all right with it, even, maybe I won't lose her like I lost Arthur,_ and Merlin could swear his heart would break open, burst apart, with all the _hope,_ and all the _no don't hope don't do that don't ever do that don't you ever hope again—_

"Thank you," Gwen whispered, in his ear, and her voice trembled, a little bit, and her long, curly hair tickled the side of his face. " _Thank you_ , Merlin. For everything."

Oh. She really didn't—she really—she didn't—not at all—maybe she never had—maybe she never, ever—maybe—

Merlin wrapped his arms around her, and he hugged her back—too tightly, and he knew it, he could _feel_ it, he could feel how hard he held her to him, how _close_ he held her to him, how he nearly _crushed_ her into his chest, how his fingers gouged into the back of her dress, and he knew he should pull back, pull away, let her go, he could hurt her, if he kept on like this, but—

— _but no one's held me like this in so long, and I just want a few more minutes, please, just let me have a few more minutes, that's it, that's all, I just want a few more minutes, just long enough to remember what it feels like when someone touches me without wanting to hurt me_ —

Gwen stepped back. "Merlin, we _have_ to warn Arthur. I know," she held up her hand only moments before he opened his mouth, "I know you said he didn't listen, but we have to _try_. We can't let him walk into all of this blind. If Morgana takes him by surprise, she'll—"

"I know," Merlin cut her off. "Believe me, I know. But he's not—Morgana won't—he's going to be safe, Gwen, trust me, he's going to be all right, Gwaine is—" he hesitated, half a moment, before he said it, but she wanted to keep Arthur safe, too, right, she would get it, she would see, "—Gwaine is getting him out of the castle. Now. Right now. And you should go with him. Morgana won't be any kinder to you, if she catches you."

" _Gwaine_ is getting him—?" Gwen arched her dark brows. "How on earth has he convinced Arthur to leave Camelot with _Morgana_ —?"

"Um," Merlin said, "he didn't. Actually. I-I told him to dose Arthur with one of Gaius' sleeping draughts and—don't look at me like that! What would you have wanted me to do? He wouldn't leave on his own!"

"I—I can't _believe_ —" Gwen shook her head, "—as soon as he sees you again, he'll _murder_ you—"

Merlin tightened his lips. "Yes," he said, sharply, "well, he was going to do that as soon as he saw me again, anyway, Gwen, I really don't see how I've made things any worse."

"—I—" Gwen's small, pretty face softened, a little, and all the hard lines around her eyes and mouth smoothed back out to nearly nothing, "—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I wasn't thinking."

Merlin shook his head, and he meant to say _it's all right, it's okay, it's not a big deal, it's fine,_ that was what he meant to say, that was what he _wanted_ to say, but the words just wouldn't come. "Forget it," he said, instead, "just—just forget it, you need to get out of here, all right? Go with Arthur and Gwaine. It's not safe for any of you here."

"What about you?" Gwen pressed. "If it's not safe for the rest of us, it's certainly not any safer for _you_. What are you going to do?"

"No, don't worry about me," because if he let her do that, God knew she would never leave, "I'll be all right. Just get out of here." He stepped past her and looked down the long, dark corridor ahead of him. It would be a long way, and with Morgana already within the walls, it would be a close thing, and without his magic, he didn't know how he would ever manage it, but he _had_ to try. If he could just seal off the siege tunnels, and shut out as many of Morgana's soldiers as he could, Camelot might just be in with a chance.

"Oh, Merlin—" Gwen grabbed his hand up in her own, and squeezed his fingers, "—just be careful, _please_ , don't get yourself hurt."

Merlin smiled at her—he had to smile, because if he didn't, he really thought he might cry, he really thought he might just burst out into tears and hug her again, and say _oh, God, thank you for not hating me, thank you so much for not hating me, I can't believe it, I can't believe you don't hate me, I can't believe you aren't scared of me, I can't believe you don't want me to get hurt—_

"Oh," he said, instead, "you know me, Gwen. I'm always careful."

* * *

Merlin still hadn't really figured out how he would seal up the siege tunnels yet— _if only I had Percival here with me, I bet he could do it, he could probably tear the tunnels down all by himself, with his bare hands, no magic or anything_ —but he had already nearly reached the entrance, and _come on, I have to do something, I have to get this right, I can't just give up_ —

Someone grabbed him.

Someone just-just _grabbed_ him, just like that, and he didn't see where they had come from, and he didn't see their face, just the strong, lean fingers snapped shut, like a shackle, like a chain, around his wrist-and a quick, deft hand twisted his arm up behind his back—until he heard his shoulder crack, until he _felt_ his shoulder crack, and the pain of it ripped the breath from his lungs, and broad, brawny arms slammed him, face-first, into the stone wall, and the bruise Sir Ector had left on his cheek pulsed and pounded with the fresh blow.

"Well, you sure don't look like much," a very deep, very low voice said, from behind him. "Let's hope you're worth all this trouble."

The whole corridor looked very blurry, suddenly, and when Merlin tried to turn his head, to turn around, to get a better look at the man who held him, it made his stomach churn and toss until he really thought he would be sick.

"Where—?" He murmured, half into the cold stone at his cheek, and God, he knew this wouldn't do any good, he knew he wouldn't get anywhere, not like this, but _let's hope you're worth all this trouble_ and that meant—that _had_ to mean— "Where is Morgana?"

"Funny you should ask." The man jerked him up, off the wall, by his shoulders—and, oh, _Jesus fucking Christ,_ Merlin really thought he might pass out with the pain of it. "She has the same question about you."

* * *

 **Notes: all right, so, yes, i know i said i wouldn't be back until after the holidays. i know! i said that! i did! but i just got Seized by The Muse** **™️** **! also, real talk, i just missed this fic a whole hell of a lot, and i figured, if i really stuck to it, i could get a chapter out by the first week of December. lo and behold!**

 **all right NOW i won't be back until after the holidays. and i really mean it this time, _i will not touch this fic_ until Dec 26. at the absolute earliest. i just. i will not. i will turn my attentions to other things. i will do that. i will. y'all have the right to quote me on that. i solemnly swear i'll leave y'all alone until Christmas has passed. **

**and, as usual, before i go, thank you all _so much_ for all this kindness, support, and encouragement on this silly two-in-the-morning brainchild. i can't even begin to express how much it means to me, to think actual people enjoy this at all. Y'all are truly incredible. **


	14. Already Choking On My Pride

"Now my neck is open wide,

Begging for a fist around it,

Already choking on my pride,

So there's no use crying about it."

- _Castle_ , Halsey

* * *

Merlin didn't come quietly.

No, he made _really damn sure_ of that.

He jerked and he tossed and he twisted, in the grip of the strong, silent stranger—he didn't know this man, not at all, but _let's hope you're worth all this trouble_ and _she has the same question about you,_ and _he's Morgana's, he's Morgana's man, isn't he,_ and Merlin would throw himself in the fire and smile as the flames scorched his skin before he would _ever_ make this easy on Morgana—no, he had already done that, he had already made it easy on her, he had already stepped back and let her stride right into the castle, hadn't he, no defense, no resistance, no fight, but now—

—now—

—well, _now,_ Merlin kicked out and jabbed and shoved, like a child in a temper, and he shouted all the spells he had ever learned in his life, louder and louder and louder until the words, the incantations, all came out a harsh and strangled scream—but his magic, it didn't _do_ anything, it didn't do _anything at all_ —it only ached and shuddered and trembled inside of him, heavy and sore, like an enormous, black and blue bruise in the center of his chest, a feeble flicker in the white-hot flare of the collar around his throat—so he dragged his feet instead, he dug the dirty heels of his boots down into all the little cracks in all the broad yellow stones, to stop, to slow down, to make this man _let him go_ —he would not lie down and let this happen, he would not lie down and let this happen again, not to this kingdom, not to these people, not to _Arthur_ —

—but the man _didn't_ let him go.

No, the man only pushed him, on and on and on, down the corridor, and past the stairwell, and around the corner, and through the first door on the left, into the small, bare chamber—and Merlin looked, but he didn't see Morgana—or Agravaine—or anyone, really, there wasn't anyone in here at all, only the stone walls to stare back at him, not even a window, and _why am I here, why would he bring me here, why hasn't he brought me to Morgana_ —?

—and the door slammed shut, with a sharp snap of the bolt.

No—Merlin whirled around, so fast, so frantic, the empty chamber blurred into a dizzy mess around him, his heart going and going and going, at a hundred miles, in his chest—no, not this, not now, he had to get out, he _had_ to _get out of here_ , he couldn't stay here, _he could not stay here_ , locked in and locked up and locked away, not _again,_ he had to—he _had_ to get out—he had to get to Morgana— _he had to stop Morgana_ —

He scrambled right back to the door, and he twisted and he turned the little silver handle, side to side, back and forth, over and over and over again, and he kicked it, the door, he kicked it as hard as he could, and he pushed it and he shoved it and he rammed into it with his shoulder—his _good_ shoulder—and he tossed out burst after burst of magic, and it didn't matter if it hurt, _he didn't care_ if it hurt, so what, big deal, didn't matter, he had a whole kingdom of innocent people to protect, and he had to do it, _he had to_.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, stuck, in that little chamber, with the locked door, and the pain, and blood on his hands, the blood on his knuckles, from all the times he had hit and struck at the door, and his magic screamed with every word of every spell, get out, get out, it wanted to get out of him, it just wanted to _get out of him_ —no, he really didn't know how long he stayed there—all the hours blended and bled and blurred, one into another into another into another, and he didn't have a window to look out of, to see if the sky had gotten lighter, to see if the moon and stars had dimmed back down again, to see if the dawn had finally come—but he knew it had been a very, _very_ long time, when the handle turned, and the door opened back up again.

And Morgana stormed inside.

Every step she took echoed in Merlin's ears—she moved like the roll and roar of thunder, like the crash and crack of lightning, like the foam and froth of a furious sea, and—

— _oh_ —

—and Agravaine walked with her, at her heels, half a step behind her—and Merlin had it wrong, before, he'd had it all wrong, because _this_ was the thunder, _this_ was the lightning, _this_ was the storm, the furious sea— _you will belong to me_ and _when Morgana regains the throne, you're mine_ and _you are going to make an absolutely lovely concubine_ and Merlin hadn't listened—he hadn't thought—he hadn't _really believed_ —but—

— _is that why he's here, is that what this is, has he come to take me away and make me—?_

Morgana stopped.

Right in front of Merlin.

And the sudden silence of it echoed even louder, evenlonger—all around the room, off all the walls, off all the cracked and dirty stones in the floor, until all of it, everything, _screamed_ with it—and she looked at Merlin, and her eyes flared gold—bright as a fire, bright as the sun—

Merlin's legs buckled beneath him—all at once, all in an instant, so fast, he couldn't fight it—and he crashed down to the castle floor, on his knees, so hard and heavy, his teeth rattled in his skull, and he tried to get up, but Morgana's magic pushed and pushed and pushed him, right back down again, to the cold stone, and he couldn't—he couldn't _stand up_ —he couldn't stand up at all and—his breath hooked in the back of his throat, and trembled, on the way out of his mouth—he couldn't run—he couldn't _get away_ —he couldn't—

— _he couldn't—_

Morgana's cracked lips twisted up, and pulled back, in a flash of teeth and fierce temper, and she leaned her head down, her pale and furious face hardly half an inch from his, and she _snarled_ , she really, actually _snarled at him_ , like a—like a beast, like a feral animal, like a savage sort of _creature_ , like a wild thing of the woods—and she grabbed him—she grabbed his face, his chin—her fingers felt like claws on his cheek—and she tipped his head back until he looked up at her—until he _had_ to look up at her—

" _Where is he?!"_

Her scream—sharp as cold water on warm skin, ice on fevered flesh—echoed, like her steps, like her silence, all around the room— _but_ —his heart thudded, loud and hard as a hammer, loud and hard as a drum, in his chest— _but_ —

—and Merlin couldn't call it hope, this fire, this light, inside his chest, inside his heart— _but_ —

"Where is he?! Where are you hiding him?!" With her mouth still open in that wide, wild snarl, and her fingers still on his face, her dirty nails digging deep grooves down into his skin, Morgana wrenched his head side to side until the chamber blurred into a dizzy mess around him again, until he could see the pop and burst and blink of little white stars, and he had to shut his eyes—he _had_ to, or he thought he would be sick—

"Do not think you can keep this from me!" she shrieked, shrill and sharp and a little bit mad, her eyes ablaze with a furious fire. "Do not think you can lie to me! Tell me! Tell me where Arthur is!"

—but— _Arthur's safe—Arthur's safe now—she can't get to him—she can't hurt him—Arthur's all right, he's safe_ , and his drum and hammer heart jumped all the way up in the back of his throat, with the absolute and enormous relief of it—and all of this pain, all of this fear and hurt, it had all been worth it, hadn't it, all of this pain had been worth it, absolutely and completely worth it, because Arthur was safe, Arthur was all right, Arthur had made it out, and Morgana would never find him, never get to him, never hurt him—

"Look at me! _Look_ at me! _Tell me where he is_!"

Merlin dragged his eyes back open again, and he looked up at her—full in the face, straight in the eyes, and his drum and hammer heart pounded with something so much stronger than fear.

 _Arthur had made it out._

Arthur would _be safe_.

"I'll—" Merlin held his head high, and he never let himself look away from her, not ever, not once, "—I'll _die_ before Ibetray _my king_."

And, for one very long and very breathless moment, he thought she would do it, now, right now, he really thought she would do it, raise her hand and shout out a spell, a flick of her fingers and a flash of her eyes, and the cold crush of her corrupt magic would be the last thing he ever felt, but _I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, Arthur's safe, so I don't care_ —

But the moment slipped past, slipped away—like water down in a river—and Morgana didn't do it. She didn't do it at all. No, she only clicked her tongue at him—softly, yes, but in the absolute silence of the small chamber, it echoed like her scream. "Oh, but Emrys," she said—and quietly, very quietly, but all the words still carried to every last corner of the little room, "hasn't your king already betrayed _you_?"

"Betrayed _me_?" Merlin had only barely pushed the last word off his lips before the first hot burst of anger bubbled up and burned, like acid, in the bottom of his stomach—if she really thought she could speak like that about _Arthur_ —

Morgana took her hand off his chin—her sharp, dirty nails scraped and scratched a string of thin, stinging trails all down his cheek—and she grabbed for his scarf—to tear it off, to snatch it, to rip it, to see the—to look at the—

—at the—

—the acid, the anger, bubbled higher and higher and higher, burned hotter and hotter and hotter—

—no, _not_ to look at it, no, she didn't want to do that, she didn't _need_ to do that, to look at it, no, that wasn't what she wanted, that wasn't what she meant, was it, because she already knew it was there, and she already knew what it looked like and _is this the thing Agravaine brought to her, that night in the Darkling Woods, is this what he showed her, is this what she meant when she said_ _this will change everything_ and _Camelot is nothing without its precious protector Emrys_ —?

The ragged strip of red cloth fluttered slowly from his throat—like a leaf, like a bird, down and down and down, to the cold and cracked and dirty stones in the floor, hardly half an inch from his knee—and for all of a moment, he nearly reached out and snatched it up again— _she can't have that, she can't do that, she can't take it from me, not this, not this, too,_ and yes, he knew it was only a scarf, torn and tattered all to bits and pieces, and frayed at the edges, from far too much wear, but it was _his_ , and he had already stepped back and let her take so much, he had stepped back and let her take and take and take until he was skin and bone and _empty_ , so empty, it hurt, so empty, he ached with it, so empty, his own breath rattled and echoed in all the hollow places inside him and _she can't have this, she can't have this, she can't take any more_ —

"Was this not a betrayal, Emrys?"

—oh—

—and the acid—the _anger_ —

—well—

—it all burned out.

Merlin dropped his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut—and he knew he shouldn't, he knew he _couldn't_ , he had to keep on, he had to keep up the fight, and forget about it, forget about the collar, forget about the way Arthur had looked at him, the way Arthur had said _for as long as you remain alive, you are a danger to my people_ and _how long have you plotted alongside Morgana,_ like he thought Merlin could ever—like he _really_ thought Merlin could _ever actually_ —

 _No._

No, it didn't matter, it didn't matter at all, it didn't _have_ to matter, Arthur didn't ever have to know the truth, Arthur didn't ever have to know, or forgive him, or be all right with him, ever again, no, Arthur didn't have to do that, and Merlin could cradle his own stupid, broken heart later, in the dark, in the shadows, where no one would see, but just now—

—just now, he had far bigger things to think about.

"He has done what he feels is right." The words still trembled, a little, on the way out of his mouth, but in the back of his mind, an older and deeper and far more ancient voice than his own echoed, over and over again— _you did what you felt was right and that_ —and he still had it in him to lift his head, to lock eyes with her, so much higher than him, so far above him. "And _that_ shows _great courage_."

"Oh, come now," Morgana clicked her tongue at him again, "you have no need to play the loyal little servant anymore, Emrys. Your king cares nothing for you. Surely he has made that clear enough?" She flicked her eyes back down to his throat, to the heavy iron ring, still blazing hot against his skin—

— _and he was the one to do it, to lock it, to latch it, so I couldn't get it off, Arthur, it was him, it was all him, he did that, he blocked up my magic, he took my magic away from me, and he didn't care, he didn't care how it hurt, he didn't care about me_ —but—

"That doesn't matter—" Merlin shook his head, "—I don't care, I don't _need_ him to—"

"To return your loyalty?" Morgana arched her dark brows at him. "Yes, I can see that. Tell me, will you stand still, like a good little prisoner, and let him run you through? Will you knot your own noose for him? Light your own pyre for him?"

— _there is but one sentence I can pass_ and _you cannot talk your way out of justice_ and _as soon as he sees you again, he'll murder you_ —

"Will you jump at the chance to serve him again? One last time?"

" _Stop it!"_ That wasn't what he had wanted to say, that wasn't what he had opened up his mouth to say—it had just slipped out—he didn't mean—he didn't _want_ —he just had to make her _stop_ —

"Face it, Merlin," and that was—that was _worse_ , almost, to hear his name, his real name, on her lips, again, now, "you have followed at his heels and groveled at his feet like a dog all these years—"

And Merlin wanted to cut in, cut her off, shout at her, _scream_ at her—she couldn't do that, she couldn't do that, not again, not ever again, she couldn't take all the years he had stayed at Arthur's side and twist it, she couldn't take all the smiles and secrets and laughs he had had with Arthur, and turn it all to ashes, burn it all down to nothing, like it had never really meant a thing at all, she couldn't do that, she didn't get to that—but the words stuck fast in the back of his throat, in the back of his mouth, and he didn't—he _couldn't_ —

"—and he cannot even be bothered to give his faithful little hound so much as a scrap off his table." Morgana looked down on him, and her cracked, pale lips curled up—disgust, _revulsion_ , all over her face, thick and stark as ink on paper. "And still, you long to crawl after him again, don't you? Just one more time?"

— _just one more moment with him, one more second, one more heartbeat, if I could just go back, for one more heartbeat, back to before he knew, back to before he hated me—_

"Well," Morgana leaned down again, her long and tangled hair all around him, all over him, a thick, dark veil, "it's time to _bite the hand that beat you_."

" _What?"_ Merlin pulled back from her, pulled away— _bite the hand,_ and _does she really think, does she really actually think I would ever_ —? "No!"

"Think on it a moment," Morgana dropped her voice down to the barest whisper, in his ear, her breath hot on the side of his face. "What good has all your loyalty _really_ brought you?"

" _Good_?" Merlin almost laughed—that was just Morgana all over, wasn't it— "This has nothing to do with me, or the good it will bring me—"

"Look around, Emrys." Morgana jabbed a long, pale finger at him, into his chest. "Your king has already cast you aside—"

— _cast you aside,_ and it played, over and over and over again, in his head, on loop, on echo, around and around and around— _he cast you aside_ _without a moment's thought_ , and what had he said, all the way back then, what was it—that doesn't matter—but it had, it had, and he had always believed—he had told himself—he had _lied_ to himself—he had—

—he had _hoped_ —

"—a hundred times over, he has cast you aside! He _will not_ stand by you as you stand by him!"

— _I hoped things would be different by now, I hoped things would be better by now, I hoped maybe Arthur would see me, really see me, and all of me, and I hoped—I hoped—_

—and it hurt, too much, to say it, even to himself, it hurt too much to think it, even inside his own head, but—

— _I hoped he would see me, and he would still be my friend anyway—_

"But," Morgana stood back up again—the back of her hand brushed, lightly, over his cheek, on her way up, "I do not let my allies go unrewarded as he does."

Merlin pulled his head back up—and he had to swallow, just a little too hard, to push the hard and heavy knot at the back of his throat all the way down. "How generous of you." He still sounded too hoarse, too husky, with the weight of all the tears inside him, but at least he got it out. At least his voice stayed steady all the way through.

But Morgana only arched her brows at him again. " _You_ would not go unrewarded, either—"

A little jolt—the barest, briefest flare of surprise—flickered in Merlin, a tiny flame on a small candle. _So that's what she wants, then, that's what she's trying to get at, that's what she's trying to do_ —it almost made a sick sort of sense, actually—but did she really think—? Did she really, _actually_ think—?

"—you could have a very comfortable life here at my court—no more servitude, for a start, and all the gold you could ever—"

Oh. So she really _did_ think, then, she really did think she could—she really did think she could _buy him off_ —she really did think she could get him to—

—to—

" _No."_ Merlin didn't need to think about it. He would never need to think about it, because this wasn't a choice, this wasn't a choice at all, it would always be Arthur, always, only Arthur, every time, in every life, it would always, _always_ be Arthur. "I have no need of promises like yours, and I certainly have no need of _your gold_." He nearly snarled the last word out at her—she really thought a few shiny little shillings could get him to turn on _Arthur_ —?

Morgana laughed—a sharp, bitter thing, like a knife in his ears—and shook her dark head. "Don't be so hasty, now, Emrys! Think it through, won't you? A life of ease, and comfort, and riches, until the end of your days—no more laboring for a man who fails to value you—"

But Merlin didn't _need_ to think it through. He would never need to think it through. He would never need to think about it.

It wasn't a choice.

It wasn't a choice at all.

"I'm _Arthur's_." He lifted his chin. " _Always_. And there is nothing you can do to me, and nothing you can say to me, and nothing you can give to me, to _ever_ change that."

And—Merlin's heart lurched in his chest, hard as he tried to stop it, hard as he tried not to feel scared at all— _now_ , she would do it, now she would really do it, right here, right this very moment, right now, she would do it, she really would raise her hand and shout out a spell—a flick of her fingers and a flash of her eyes and the cold crush of her corrupt magic—

—but she _didn't._

She leaned down her head down—and she opened her mouth—and she _hissed_ at him—like a _snake_ —

" _We'll just see about that."_

—her eyes narrowed down to nothing, down to thin and furious slits in her pale face, and snapped, all at once, all in a moment, sharp and so, so quick, down past his face, down to his arm, limp at his side, where the man had grabbed him—

"Oh," a small, cold smile dangled at the corner of her cracked lips, "I see Helios has had his fun with you already. You'll have to forgive him for that, he can get a bit—" she cocked her dark head, "— _overexcited_ —"

 _Helios—_ Merlin played the name over and over and over again inside his head, but no, he didn't know it, he had never even heard it before, he didn't know the man, and he finally had to tuck it away in the back of his mind and leave it there.

"—but it must hurt—" she had dropped her words down to a whisper, hushed and—and _hungry_ , almost, "—so _much_ —"

—it hit Merlin half a moment before it happened, and his stomach lurched— _no, no, no_ —

—Morgana grabbed his shoulder and _wrenched_ —

—pain pain pain pain and _oh God oh God oh God it has to stop it has to stop it has to stop_ but it wouldn't it wouldn't and he was on fire and _his shoulder_ was on fire and _his whole body was on fire_ and he was burning and he was blazing and his shoulder was exploding, erupting, blowing up, blowing apart, blowing to pieces, like the glass in the window Morgana had shattered, and he was _screaming_ , sharp and so, so loud, and he tried to stop, he wanted to stop, he wanted to shut up, shut his mouth, but he couldn't, he couldn't, it just kept going, it just kept pouring out of him and—

—and—

—and the pain finally finally finally fell away.

Morgana had let him go.

— _oh, thank the Goddess, thank the Goddess from here to Avalon and back again, and thank the god in the chapel, too, thank the god on the cross, if he's there, let's thank him, too_ —

Merlin cradled his limp and swollen-up arm—clutched it, really, _hugged_ it, almost, to his chest, like a child, and little needles and knives and lancets of fire and flame still flared and flashed, up and down, under the skin, like _lightning_ —

" _That_ ," Morgana hissed, again, her face so twisted up in rage, she hardly looked human, "was _just a taster_. There is _far more_ waiting for you."

* * *

"—here—let me—"

"—no, don't—need to help—"

"—but you _can't_ —"

"—you think we should—?"

"—don't see how else we could—"

The senseless jumble of splintered, split-up words flitted and floated, in large and lazy circles, around and around and around, over—or maybe _in_ —Arthur's sore head, still very thick and very slow with the long sleep. He knew the voices, yes, he knew them, and he _knew_ he knew them, and he knew he should listen, he knew he should sit up and open his eyes and try to _hear_ —it _must_ be important, it _had_ to be important, surely, if the voices had come all the way into his bedchamber, all the way to his _bedside,_ even—and so _early_ , too—no one ever came into his bedchamber so early—well, except Merlin, of course but—

—but—

— _Merlin—_

— _I didn't mean for you to find out like this_ and _I'm sorry_ and _I never wanted to hurt you, please, you have to know that_ and _I use it for you, Arthur, only for you_ and _I never wanted to lie to you, I wanted to tell you, I swear, I always wanted to tell you_ and _it was all for you, everything was all for you, everything, always, for you_ and _it was always you, it was always, always you_ and—

"Merlin," it tumbled out of his mouth in a harsh, strangled gasp, hardly louder than a murmur in the back of his throat, and he ripped his eyes open, and he—

—he—

—he wasn't in his bed—he wasn't even in his bed _chamber_ , actually—it didn't—it didn't look likehe was even in the castle _at all_ , and his heart picked up in his chest—no, he wasn't, he wasn't in the castle, he was in a—in a tent—? In the middle of the forest? He could hear the howl of the wind and the crunch and the crackle of the ice and snow just outside the thick canvas walls, so, yes, he must be in the forest, right, but _why am I here, why did I come here, why did I come all the way out here, why did I come out of the castle, why would I do that, why did I do that,_ and he pushed himself up, off the floor—

—and the senseless jumble, and the voices he _knew_ he knew—

—it all stopped.

Just like that.

Arthur looked up, lifted his eyes from the canvas walls, to find the voices, to pin down the names and the faces—and it was _so hard_ , to hold up his heavy head—

 _Guinevere_. No, no, that wasn't right, was it? Why was she here? Why would she be here? Why had she left the castle with him? Why had she come with him? And, over her small shoulder and dark head, he could see Sir Elyan—why had Guinevere and Sir Elyan—and Sir Gwaine, he was there, too, and why had he—no, no, _not_ Sir Gwaine. That wasn't right now, that wasn't right anymore, was it? Not after all he had—all he had said— _pick up your sword and fight me_ and _I will strike you where you stand_ and _consider this my resignation_ and—

"Arthur!" Guinevere clasped her hands over her heart.

"Hey," Sir Gwaine—no, no, _just_ Gwaine—dropped down to the floor, in a kneel, to look at him, "you all right there, Princess?"

Arthur blinked—that was a very, _very_ not-Gwaine thing to say—and he could feel a frown at the edges of his mouth, but he nodded. It made his heavy head ache all the more.

"Good," Gwaine said. He never looked away from Arthur. "That's good."

And he punched Arthur full in the face.

The pain of it exploded, all the way down to Arthur's chin, all the way up to his brow—his nose cracked, popped, snapped, with a noise like thunder, and a thick, bright red stream of hot, fresh blood burst out— _broken_ —he knew—he didn't need Gaius to tell him that—he clamped a hand, hard, over his face, to try and slow or stem the heavy scarlet flow—

" _Gwaine!"_ Guinevere shouted, and she rushed, from her end of the tent, over to Arthur's side.

" _What—?!"_ Elyan rounded on Gwaine, one broad hand already wrapped around the silver hilt of his sword, and his face twisted up tight in fury. "What the _actual hell_ is wrong with you?!"

" _That_ ," Gwaine said—he dropped his hand back to his side, knuckles flecked with Arthur's blood, and he stuck out his chin, proud and bold, as always— "was for _Merlin_. And you're damn lucky he made me swear to look after you, or I'd do worse."

" _Merlin?"_ Arthur echoed incredulously—his mind whirled and reeled and whirred, and he really didn't think it had a single thing to do with Gwaine's fists at all— _he made me swear to look after you_ , but that—that _wasn't_ true— _that was a lie—_ it was all a _lie_ —it had _always_ been a lie—

"—stop, stop—!" Guinevere stooped down, at Arthur's side, her pale purple handkerchief already clutched in her palm—and the long skirt of her dress looked absolutely soaked through with all the cold and the wet outside and why was she out in the snow—? "Let me have a look at you." She tugged, lightly, at his arm. "Let's get you cleaned up, and then we can talk about—"

"Yeah, _Merlin_ ," Gwaine cut in, his dark brows dipped down in a furious scowl. "You know, dark hair, red scarf, loyal friend? You _tossed him in a cell_ and _took away his magic_? Remember _that_ bit?"

"The bit where I eliminated a danger to the kingdom?" Arthur snapped back and _does he honestly think I'm going to say sorry for that, does he honestly think I'm going to feel sorry for that, does he honestly think there's any good left inside Merlin at all?_ "Yes, Gwaine, funnily enough, I _do_ , actually." He pulled his fingers away from his bloodied face and dropped his crimson-smeared hand in his lap.

Guinevere pressed her lips together until her mouth looked very thin and very white. "Here, hold on," she pushed aside the tent's front flap, and stepped out—and Arthur could see, for half a moment, maybe less, before she hurried back in, a small cookfire—she handed her pale purple kerchief over to him, "tip your head down, and put this on it. That will help with the swelling."

Arthur nodded—he knew her too well, and he had seen her lend a hand in Gaius' chambers too many times, to doubt her in this—and he took the kerchief—cold and damp now—she had stuffed snow inside—and pressed it, hard, to his nose. "Thank you, Guinevere."

Her mouth looked even thinner and even whiter, but she merely dipped her dark head at him. "Of course, Sire."

 _Sire?_ Arthur frowned. She hadn't called him _that_ for a very long time, not for ages, at least not like this, away from the court, and all the nobles who had never accepted her—all the nobles who would likely _never_ accept her even after he put a ring on her finger and a crown on her head—but there was no one here to look down on her, to disapprove of her, so _why_ —?

 _No_ —Arthur shook his head—not right now, not just now, that wasn't the biggest question he had on his lips in this moment. "What happened?" He pushed himself up, a little higher, off the floor, on the heels of his hands, and looked around the tent—very small, and very simple, a low wooden table in one corner, a thick rug in the center, and a scratchy brown blanket draped loosely over his legs, up to his waist—but he still didn't know, he still didn't remember, he couldn't _remember_ — "Where are we? Why have we come out here?" He rubbed, lightly, at the back of his own head—and he certainly didn't _feel_ a bump under his hair, but maybe he had taken a bad blow, maybe that was why he didn't—maybe that was why he couldn't seem to—?

Guinevere sucked in a slow breath, loud in the thick silence of the snowy wood—like she had to steel herself, for what she knew would come now, but what—?

"Morgana attacked the castle."

" _What?!"_ Arthur jerked up on his feet, one hand already halfway to the hilt of the sword at his side. "No—no, she's—she's nowhere near here, the patrols haven't seen her in ages, not since—" _since the Dorocha, since the Isle of the Blessed, since Lancelot_ , and his insides felt cold as the winter world outside. But it was true, the patrols hadn't seen her since her last scheme had failed, since Sir Lancelot had sealed the veil back up, and the screaming spirits had returned back to the world of the dead.

So _how_ had the patrols missed her? Every knight in the land knew to keep an eye out for her. Every knight in the land knew to ride straight for the castle and alert him at once at the smallest, slightest sign of her, of her magic, of her newest plot, so how had she made it all the way into the castle without—?

"But—" Arthur shook his head again, his fingers clenched up in a fist around the ice-cold, blood-soaked kerchief, "—but we fought her off, right?" He glanced at Guinevere. "We fought her back. We _won_. Like always. Didn't we?"

But Guinevere didn't say it.

And she didn't need to—no, she didn't need to say it, she didn't need to say it at all, because he could read the answer, clear as ink on paper, in the crumple of her pretty face, in the slow shake of her dark head, in the soft hitch of her even breath and his heart dropped all the way down into his boots—Morgana had slipped past the patrols, slipped into the castle, into the very heart of Camelot, and now—

— _now she'll massacre all the innocent people I left behind and why did I leave them behind, and why am I out here, why am I out here if she's in there—_

No. Really. Why was he out here? Why had he left? He would never flee to safety if it meant he had to leave his people behind in peril, so what had made him—what had changed his mind—? "Why—?" He looked 'round at Guinevere again, only Guinevere—he really didn't fancy another fist to the face from Gwaine, and Elyan looked about as lost as he felt right now. "Why am I out here? Why did we come out here? Why did we leave? We need to go back, the kingdom is in danger, we can't just—"

"No." Guinevere stepped in front of him, her mouth set in that thin white line again, and her chin jutted up and out. He had never seen her like this before, all flint and steel and inflexible stone. "You _can't_ go back. The castle is overrun. Completely. Morgana has won, and if you try and charge in _right now_ , to a place absolutely _crawling_ with her soldiers, you'll get yourself killed. You have to—"

"I have to _save my people_! That's what I _have to do_!" Surely, Guinevere would understand that? She loved Camelot almost as dearly as he did. Surely, she would see, surely, she would _get it_ , she would know, and she would stand back and she would let him—

"It's you Morgana wants! You! More than anything else! If you remain alive and safe, she's not the true queen! If you remain alive and safe, we're still in with a chance!"

"But at what cost will I remain alive and safe?!" Arthur bellowed right back at her. "At what cost will I—?" He broke off, suddenly—there was—there was something there, just there, in her words, in all she had just said, and it—

—it—

Arthur slammed his eyes shut. "Guinevere," he said, softly, and, funny, he sounded far calmer than he felt—the fury burned like fire under his skin, but it never made it all the way to his voice— "Did _you_ take me out of the kingdom?"

"No, _I_ did," Gwaine snapped. "So don't look at her, Princess, no, look at me. _I'm_ the one who did all this. _I'm_ the reason you're out here. All right? You want to bitch and whine at anyone, bitch and whine at me. Not her. It's not her fault."

" _You_ —?" Arthur snapped around to stare at Gwaine, and he could feel his eyes had gone very wide in his own face. " _You_ took me—? You _made me_ —?! But you knew _Morgana_ was going to—?!"

"Well, wasn't like you'd come on your own." Gwaine raised a brow. "And it wasn't like you would have listened to me, y'know? Not like you really listen to much of _anyone_ , actually, but I got a feeling I'm not too high on your list of—"

" _What the hell is wrong with you_?!" No one—not even Elyan, not even _Guinevere_ —no one in the castle—and no one in the kingdom—and no one, right now, right here with him, no one had actually _trusted_ him, no one had trusted him enough to try, to say—to try and say to him— "Why didn't you _tell me_?! Any of you?! We would have had a chance to defeat her if one of you had—!"

"Oh, yeah," Gwaine set his jaw, "real funny you should ask about _that_ , actually, 'cause, well, maybe _you_ don't remember, but _someone already fucking did_. And, hey, looks like you couldn't be assed to listen _then_ , so—"

"Merlin." The name left his lips a heavy, tired sigh, a bad and bitter taste in the back of his mouth, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Have some sense, Gwaine. You can't really think I'd take a sorcerer at his word."

"That sorcerer," Gwaine snarled right back, "has saved your ass about a million times now, and, hey, call me old-fashioned, but I always thought you were supposed to say _thanks_ when—"

"Saved?" Arthur snapped his eyes back open again. "I can't claim to know the story he spoon-fed you, but I can assure you, it was a lie. Just like all his other stories." _I'm happy to be your servant until the day I die_ and _I'm going to be at your side, like I always am, protecting you_ and _it's been an honor serving you_ and _I never wanted to hurt you_ and _I would never hurt Camelot_ and _I always wanted to tell you_ —all _lies_ — "He seeks to save no one but himself."

Gwaine ripped open his mouth, his face still twisted all the way up in that furious, feral snarl, and—

"You're _wrong_."

But it wasn't—

—it wasn't _Gwaine_.

"You're _wrong_ , Arthur." Guinevere set her mouth in that thin, white line, jutted her chin up and out, all flint and steel and inflexible stone. "Merlin _has_ saved you. And me. All of us. The whole kingdom. Many, many times. More than I think I could even count."

"Guinevere," Arthur almost scoffed, except she looked like she really believed that, and _he's gotten in her head, hasn't he, Merlin's gone and gotten inside her head, too, like he's gotten inside Gwaine's head, like he got inside my_ — "He's a sorcerer. If he's gone and told you some tale about all the times he's saved Camelot—"

" _No,"_ Guinevere narrowed her dark eyes at him, "no, he _didn't_ , Arthur, he didn't tell me that, because he didn't need to. He saved my life. Right before I left the castle with you."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. Now _that_ was a surprise. And far worse than he had ever thought, but _at least we know what we're up against now, at least we know so we can fight it._ "So," he said, "Merlin can create very convincing illusions, then?"

" _He saved my life!"_ Guinevere screamed it—actually screamed it—in his face— "He saved my life! Morgana shattered a window, and I was in the way, I was going to get hit, all the glass was going to fall and hit me—and it didn't, because _he saved me_! He shoved me down! He shoved me out of the way! _He_ _put his own body over mine_! To protect me! _To make sure he would get hit instead_! Was that an illusion?! Does that sound like it was an illusion?!"

"—Guinevere—" Arthur had never seen her so furious, her face wild and flushed with it—

"He was there the day _I buried my father_!" If Guinevere had screamed before, it was nothing to this, now, here. "I thought I was going to have to do it all alone, because _your_ father wouldn't even let me lay him to rest within the city walls!"

"I—" Arthur nodded—he knew that, he remembered that, and his heart still ached for her with it, "—I-I'm sorry, Guinevere, I—"

"I thought I was going to be alone, but I _wasn't_ , because _Merlin_ was there! _He_ was there, and he _stayed_ , and he _never left_ , and all of _that_ is more than I can say for you—" she pointed at Arthur, "—and that is _so much more_ than I can say for _you_ —" she turned, jabbed a finger, hard, at Elyan—

"Gwen," Elyan snapped, his eyes dark with anger, "stop it, get a grip, you're not—"

"—and he took me back to his chambers! So I wouldn't have to go home to my e _mpty house_! And he gave up his bed for me! And I couldn't sleep so he stayed up all night with me even though he had to see to _you_ in the morning—" she whirled back around to glare at Arthur, her hair, falling loose from her braid, a thick and curly halo around her screwed-up face, "—but he never complained! Four nights in a row, he stayed up with me, and he never complained, and was that an illusion?! Do you think that was an illusion?!"

"G-Guinevere," Arthur said, and _he shoved me out of the way_ and _he put his own body over mine to make sure he would get hit instead_ and _he was there the day I buried my father_ and he had never—he had never known—Guinevere had never told him—and Merlin had never— "I-I didn't—I didn't mean to upset—"

"Upset?" Guinevere laughed, but it was a bitter, mirthless thing. "Yes! Yes, I'm upset! I'm upset because I have to stand back and watch while all of you take the best and most loyal friend you have ever had in your life and _throw him away_! And you all expect me to do the same!"

"Whoa, whoa, hey," Gwaine stepped up, " _I'm_ not throwin' Merls away over here! I don't give a rat's ass if he's got—!"

" _You left him there_!" Guinevere snarled at Gwaine, all teeth and fire and fury. "Don't you even start, you're just as bad as the rest of them! You _knew_ he didn't have his magic anymore, and _you left him_ to face Morgana _all on his own_! You just left him there! You knew! And you just left him there!"

"You know him!" Gwaine snapped. "You know how he is! He didn't listen! He didn't care! It was all Arthur, that was all he talked about, that was all he _cared_ about—!"

Arthur's stomach jolted. No, that didn't add up—not with—not with everything else—not with the magic—not with the lies—

"—not, either, but magic killed our father, Gwen, do you really expect me to—?"

" _A sword_ _killed our father_!" Guinevere shouted, and so loud, she could have scared the birds from the trees outside. "A sword, Elyan, _that's all_! A sword wielded on _his father's_ orders!" She jerked her chin over at Arthur—like she couldn't even stand to look at him right now and—

— _oh—_

"Guinevere," Arthur reached out—tried to touch her—a hand on her shoulder, on her arm, maybe, to pull her close, to hold her to him, he didn't know, but she—

—she wrenched back, and the look in her eyes was far colder than the ice and snow all around the tent. " _Don't_."

"—I-I'm sorry." Arthur dropped his hand back to his side, and his heart dropped all the way down into his boots—she had never refused his touch before. "I'm sorry about your father. If I had known what was going to happen—"

"Arthur," Guinevere said, and in the echoes of all her screams, it sounded very soft, but every word still fell hard and heavy as a blow on his ears, "if you actually think this is about me, you really _do not get it_."

But she didn't let him say anything—she didn't wait long enough for that—she only turned, sharply, on her heel, her mouth pressed back into that thin, white line, and pushed the front flap aside again. "I'll tell him you're awake." She sounded— _harsh_ , almost, in a way she never had before—and, without another word, she tugged the hood of her thick purple cloak back up over her head, tucked a few stray brown curls up under the cloth, and plunged out of the tent.

For a long and silent moment, Arthur only stared after her, with his heart heavy in his chest and his mouth dropped all the way open—he had never seen Guinevere like this before, not ever, not once—in all the years he had known her, in all the years he had loved her, he had never seen her like this, he had never even known she could be like this—like a storm, like a raging, violent tempest, loud and wild in her fury.

He had never known she could look at anyone like she had looked at him—like she hated him more than she had ever hated anyone or anything in the world—and he had never known she could scream like she had screamed at him, like she wanted her every last word to break the skin, to cut to the bone, to _hurt_. Even with all the times she had got in a fight with him, she had never looked at him like that, she had never screamed at him like that, and _is it true, is it really true, has she really told the truth, has she really_ —?

Had Merlin _really_ saved her? Had he really done all that she had said he had? Had he really cared for her the way she said he had? But why would a sorcerer—why would a sorcerer even bother to—?

Wait.

Guinevere's last words finally hit him, and Arthur snapped around to look at Gwaine and Elyan."'Him'? Who the hell is 'him'? Where are we?"

"Right," Gwaine nodded, "so—about that—"

The front fold of the tent fluttered open again, with a bitter burst of winter wind, and Guinevere stepped back inside. An old man walked behind her, his iron-grey hair all the way down to his chin, and a small brown basket clutched in his wrinkled hands, a long green cloak at his back, and a—

—and a silver triskelion clasped at his throat.

 _The druids._

Arthur's heart thudded.

Gwaine and Guinevere and Elyan had taken him to the druids.

* * *

 **Notes: so. this was. a chapter. huh?**

 **i know this took me a literal decade. anyone still alive? i need that Atlantis gif again where he's like "all right who's not dead? sound off". that's what i need.**

 **To be honest, I've had everything Gwen said in my head for a long time, but I never intended to actually let her _say_ any of it in the story, I figured I would just keep it all scribbled down for my own personal use - I wanted her acceptance of Merlin to feel authentic, so in every scene so far, I've really tried to emphasize her sense of isolation and especially her sense of abandonment, most notably from a lot of the men in her life. We all know her father obviously had zero choice in leaving his daughter behind, but Elyan ran off on her, by choice, before the series ever opened, and Arthur spent most of S2 and S3 being very on-again off-again with her, so, naturally, she feels a bit cast aside by the men she loves, and Merlin is one of the very few who's stuck by her and remained a consistent and stable figure in her life, so of course she doesn't care if he's got magic or not. but! that was never actually supposed to get any spotlight in the story - I didn't think I could find a place for it - but turns out, I was wrong, and I'm glad I was! Getting to explore Gwen's character was a lovely little bonus.**

 **Thanks so much, as always, for sticking with me, and this fic (even when I take five hundred centuries to post an update oof). It really means so much to me, to see so many people enjoy this passion project of mine.**


	15. Can't Build the Truth Based On a Lie

"If lost for words,

You can't decide,

Can't build the truth,

Based on a lie."

\- _Avalon_ , Clara Mae

* * *

" _Guinevere_!" Still dizzy and clumsy and unsteady on his feet, with the long sleep, and the ache in his head, and the dull throb of his broken nose, but Arthur brushed that all aside like cobwebs, like dust, and he scrambled over to her—the fear, like lightning in his veins, pushed him on, and he got to her, he actually got to her, he grabbed her, he locked his fingers 'round her wrist, and he pulled her back, he shoved her behind him, to the far end of the tent, all the way to the back wall. Away from the old man. That was all that mattered. That was all he wanted. That was all he had to do. Keep her safe. Keep her away from the druid. Keep her away from the _magic_.

Arthur grabbed, wildly, for the smooth golden hilt of his sword, the sharp, straight blade still buried in the leather sheath—he didn't take it out, he _wouldn't_ take it out, he _couldn't_ take it out, really, not right here. In the tiny, cramped canvas tent, there was every chance he might just take Elyan's head off before he actually got in even one proper blow at the druid and, much as his skin itched and prickled and crawled, to stand before the old man without his blade, he wasn't going to take the risk. He wasn't going to hurt one of his own. He had to wait. He just had to wait. But he never looked away from the old man. Eyes on the enemy and feet on the ground, that was the way, and his every muscle pulled tight and taut under his skin, and his knuckles white as bone around the hard, cold handle of his weapon, and his teeth clenched so tight, his jaw ached.

"I—I apologize." The old druid stepped back a bit, and merely lifted his silver brows at Arthur. "It was not my intention to surprise you." He ducked his iron-grey head down—he was still much nearer than Arthur wanted him to be, much nearer than Arthur ever wanted any druid to be, but at least he had backed off, at least he knew better than to try and push it. That was something. At least.

" _Why_ are you _here_?" Arthur snapped, the blood a furious, frenzied pound in his ears, and his heart going so fast, he thought any moment it might burst clear out of his chest, clear out of the tent, even, and skid all the way to the other end of the camp. That wasn't actually the thing he wanted to ask, but he asked it anyway, spit it from his mouth like a sip of pure poison, because he _couldn't_ ask the things he _really_ wanted to ask, he couldn't turn around and shout himself hoarse at Gwaine and Elyan and Guinevere, he couldn't roar at them until the whole camp echoed with it, he couldn't yell and bellow and scream, he couldn't ask, _why are_ we _here, why the hell are_ we _here at all, why the hell did we come here, why did you take me here, why did you take us here to this place full to the brim with magic,_ because he couldn't lose it like that, not _here_ , not with the old druid still in here, no, eyes on the enemy, eyes on the enemy, he couldn't look away, he couldn't take that chance. He could not take that chance. He _would_ not take that chance. Not with Guinevere and Elyan and Gwaine at his back. Yes, he still wanted to shout himself hoarse at them, he still wanted to roar at them until the whole camp echoed with it, he still wanted to yell and bellow and scream, but he would be _damned_ before he let them get hurt out here.

The druid's brows inched up a little higher. "You are among my people, Arthur Pendragon." He cast a quick glance over Arthur's shoulder at the others. "I admit," his pale green eyes drifted, slowly, back to Arthur again, "I would assume your companions had already informed you of this."

"Yes," Arthur clenched his teeth even tighter, so he _wouldn't_ turn around and shout himself hoarse, so he wouldn't grab them all up and toss them in the nearest ice-cold lake, "yes, _I_ would _assume_ that as well."

"We—ah—" and, wonder of wonders, Gwaine actually sounded just a bit _guilty_ about all of this—if guilty was even a thing Gwaine could feel, actually, because Arthur was pretty sure it _wasn't_ — "—we hadn't gotten around to _that_ bit yet before—"

"We _would have_ gotten around to 'that bit'," Elyan broke in, "if _you_ hadn't gone and tried to tear off half his face—"

"Yeah, well, _sorry_ ," Gwaine snapped, "but _I_ don't just step back and let prissy little princesses treat my friends like shit. Damn shame I can't say the same for _you_ , but—"

"— _friends_ —? Gwaine, he has _magic,_ for God's sake—Merlin or not, we can't just _assume_ he's—!"

"I'm sorry the accommodations are not to your liking, _Sire_ ," Guinevere said, sharply—Arthur couldn't hold back a little wince at the harsh, deliberate stress she put on his title— "but we needed a warm place to stay. You'll forgive us if we weren't very choosy about it."

Arthur still didn't take his eyes off the old man, but he felt his brow crumple up in a scowl. "Guine _vere_ —"

She pulled her lavender hood off, and her thick, dark curls tumbled free of the pale purple cloth at once. "We all would be dead or near to it right now if Iseldir hadn't let us in last night." She turned, very deliberately, back to the old man— _Iseldir_ —and smiled at him. " _Thank you_. Again. I know not _all of us_ are very good at beinggrateful."

Arthur kept his eyes locked on the old druid— _Iseldir,_ that was it, wasn't it, that was his name, that was the old man's name, and oh, he was the one that had handed Arthur the Cup of Life, wasn't he—but he could feel the dark glare she tossed his way, like he would feel a blow to the head or a fist to the face.

"Oh, no, please, no need for thanks, Guinevere," Iseldir smiled back at her, and held up a wrinkled, withered hand to stop her, to quiet her. He dipped his grey head down low again. "You are all welcome to remain here with us as long as you wish it."

" _Remain here_?" Arthur echoed, too sharp, too loud, and he shook his head. No, no, absolutely not, this was all bad enough already, all on its own, even without the druids all mixed in to muck it all up even more. Morgana had taken the castle _again_ —and maybe Merlin was in on it, too, maybe Merlin had helped her, because Arthur _couldn't_ rule that out, no, Arthur just could not rule that out, he couldn't take that chance, not with Merlin, not when Merlin had magic, not when Merlin was a sorcerer, not when Merlin had lied to him for so long—but—

—but—

— _he saved my life—I was in the way, I was going to get hit, all the glass was going to fall and hit me—he shoved me down, he shoved me out of the way—he made sure he would get hit instead—_

Would Merlin really do _that_ if he had sided with Morgana? Would Merlin really go so far just to keep up a lie? Would Merlin really go so far if he didn't _have to_? Because he _didn't_ have to, he didn't _have to_ save her, he didn't have to do anything, he didn't have to lift a finger, because no one would have ever known, no one would have ever known if he hadn't, no one would have ever found out—he didn't have to—

—the knife, the knife at the feast, the old, withered witch, dressed up as Lady Helen, she'd had a knife, a dagger, up her sleeve, and she had thrown it, and Merlin hadn't had to save Arthur that night, Merlin hadn't had to push Arthur out of the way, push him to the ground, there had been nothing in it for him, nothing at all—hell, worse than nothing, Arthur had gotten him tossed in the dungeons only the day before—he could have just let it happen, he could have just let the knife hit—he could have just let Arthur die that night—and if he really wanted Arthur dead, if he had really wanted Arthur dead for so long, if he had really hated Arthur for so long, why didn't he just—why didn't he just let the knife—? Why didn't he just let the old witch _do_ it?

Because he could have.

He really could have, and so easily, too, he could have just stepped back and let the witch do her work, what did it matter to him, because he hadn't given half a damn about Arthur and Arthur hadn't given half a damn about him, and if he had just stayed back, if he had just stayed quiet, if he had just let the old witch get on with it, Arthur would have died that night, all in an instant, all in a heartbeat, all in a blink. And Merlin would never have had to lift a hand at all to do it, but—

—but he _hadn't_.

And Guinevere didn't lie. Did she? No, of course not, Arthur had never known Guinevere to lie to anyone about _anything_ —he was pretty certain the guilt of it would eat her up from the inside out if she even tried—and Agravaine had said _you need only fasten this collar around the sorcerer's neck and_ _he will lose every last bit of his magic_ —and Guinevere had said _you knew he didn't have his magic anymore_ —and if that was true—if all of that was true—if Merlin still had the collar on, he couldn't do magic, he couldn't—so he couldn't—he couldn't _make illusions_ —and _that_ meant—that _had to mean_ —

That had to mean Merlin really _had_ saved Guinevere.

Just like he had saved Arthur.

But _why_ did he _do_ that? What was the point of it? What did he hope he would get out of it? What did he hope he _could_ get out of it, even, what did he think he could get out of all this, saving Arthur and saving Guinevere and _Merlin has saved you, and me, and the whole kingdom, more times than I think I could even count_ , but why would he do that, _why_ would he _do_ all of that? What was the point? What did he want? Because sorcerers didn't just save people, sorcerers just didn't do that sort of thing, sorcerers didn't just pop up out of nowhere to play the hero, not without a price, at least, not without a steep price indeed, no, sorcerers never did a damn thing for anybody else.

Not unless that sorcerer _wanted_ something.

So. That was it. That was it, then, wasn't it? That was it. That had to be it. So what was it, then? What did Merlin want? What did Merlin want so badly, he'd stick his own neck out all the time like he did? What did Merlin want?

Not coin. It wasn't coin. Merlin didn't want coin. Arthur knew that, no, he was certain of that, even, beyond a shadow of a doubt, because a hundred thousand times now, he had left the keys to the castle treasury with Merlin, and even an idiot like that had to know the sort of riches within—golden coins thick as a man's forefinger, enormous, shining gems and sparkling jewels and all manner of swords and spears and blades, too heavy and ridiculously fancy to take into a real fight, oh, yes, Merlin had held the keys in his hands, a hundred thousand times now, and he had never, even once, nicked a damn thing.

Merlin simply wasn't _greedy_. Merlin just didn't seem to want, in the way most men wanted—rich wine and beautiful ladies and handsome lords and priceless treasures and glory and greatness and renown, no, Merlin simply didn't seem to _want_ any of that, not one, ambitious bone in his whole skinny body, so what _did_ he want? What did the man who always wanted nothing want out of _this_?

Unless—

—Arthur's stomach twisted—

— _it was all for you, everything was all for you, everything, always, for you—_

—but that couldn't be real, that couldn't be right, that couldn't be true, sorcerers weren't _like that_! Everybody knew that! Everybody knew sorcerers weren't like that! Everybody knew sorcerers just weren't like that! They couldn't do that! They couldn't feel like that! They couldn't feel loyalty! They couldn't feel love! _Sorcerers could not love_! But—but Merlin—

— _I did everything for you, it was all for you, it was you, it was always, always you—_

No. That couldn't be right. That couldn't be true.

 _Could it?_

"—not wise to face the elements just yet. There is a storm in the air."

Arthur blinked, his scrambled mind still stuck on loop— _but what if it is, what if it's true, what if Merlin really doesn't want anything at all, what if Merlin really never meant to hurt me or my kingdom—_ before the old druid's words finally hit him.

 _Oh._ Right. Yes. Iseldir wanted them to stay, Iseldir wanted them to stay, that was the old man wanted, that was what the old man was getting at, but—

But that was ridiculous. That was _worse_ than ridiculous.

Arthur couldn't stay here. He just couldn't stay here, he just couldn't do it, he could not stay here, not for one single moment longer, and certainly not long enough for the "storm in the air", as Iseldir had said, to blow itself out, to wear itself down, that could take hours, that could take ages, and he could not stay here that long, he could not stay here so long while his castle lay in Morgana's hands, and he couldn't stay here, where magic loomed and lurked at every turn, around every bend, inside every tent, thick in the air around him, no, he _could not_ do that, he _could not_ stay here. He _couldn't_.

But—the wind howled on and on outside the little tent, loud and feral as a wolf, and sure to be colder than the ice on the ground, but behind the thick, canvas walls, Arthur couldn't feel it—but what else _could_ he do? With Morgana in the castle, on the throne, he would be lucky to get one foot in the door before she had cut him down, tied him up, tossed him down in the dungeons, tossed him up on the gallows, even, with a noose knotted tight around his neck. With Morgana in the castle, he would be lucky to last the night. Hell, he would be lucky to last the _hour_ , even, if she got her hands on him.

Guinevere was right. So long as he remained alive, Morgana could never truly lay claim to the crown. And that meant she would want him dead more than anything else.

If Arthur wanted to save his people, and take back his kingdom, he needed a plan. A _proper_ plan, this time, he couldn't just blunder in and hope for the best, the way he always did, the way he always had—it was a _damn miracle,_ he knew, he had made it through the last battle with Morgana at all, and there was no chance he'd be so lucky this time. And he couldn't take that chance. Not with his kingdom, his people, at stake.

And he couldn't very well _come up_ with a proper plan if he forged on into the forest and got frostbite.

"All right." He let his hand drop from his weapon—he didn't _want_ to, he would rather pull out his own teeth with a pair of Gaius' rusted old pliers, actually, but if he was going to stay here, a blade to the heart certainly wasn't the way to go about it. He couldn't just jab his sword at every last druid he saw and expect the whole camp to just be all right with it. That would be a bit much to ask even of the druids. "We will be no trouble here, I assure you. We will merely wait out the bad weather, and move on. We will not impose upon you any longer than we must."

There. That was good. Right? So long as he stayed in this little tent as much as he could, so long as he didn't go into the camp more than he absolutely _had_ to, so long as he just lingered until the storm had passed, he wouldn't even have to _see_ all the magic at every turn and around every bend and inside every tent and thick in the air around him. He could do that. He could absolutely do that. Right?

"Impose?" Iseldir's wrinkled cheeks lifted in a wide, warm smile, and a chuckle, soft as summer rain, slipped out of his mouth. "You greatly misunderstand your position, Arthur Pendragon. On the contrary, it is an honor to house one so high in Emrys' favor."

Wait. _What_?

"Emrys?" Arthur echoed. The name tingled on his tongue. Little bumps prickled on his skin with it, with the feel of it, on his lips, with the sound of it, in his own ears. But that was mad. That was absolutely mad. He certainly didn't know a soul called _Emrys_. Did he? It tickled, lightly, at the back of his mind, like an old friend he'd forgotten he had. Or, maybe, like an old god he had merely forgotten to pray to.

But that was ridiculous. That was impossible. He didn't know anybody called Emrys. He had _never_ known anybody called Emrys. Had he?

But Iseldir didn't look like he was in a big rush to say much more. "Perhaps you would like me to look at your nose now?" He raised his eyebrows. "I'm afraid it will only get worse if it is not cared for."

"M-My nose?" Arthur blinked—oh, right, yes, his _nose_ — "W-With magic? You mean? You want to heal it with _magic_?" His stomach clenched.

"That is the way I would recommend, yes," Iseldir dipped his chin down in a nod, and shifted his basket from one hand to the other.

"No!" Arthur shook his head. Oh, this was a _bad idea_ , wasn't it? This was a _really bad idea_ , and it settled, a hard and heavy knot, deep in the bottom of his stomach. He had thought he could do it, he had thought he wouldn't have to see any magic if he just stayed in the tent, he had thought, maybe, he could make it through and he wouldn't have to even hear the word, even once, but that was—that was silly, wasn't it, that was ridiculous, he was right in the middle of a druid camp, and why did he _ever_ think he could do this, why did he ever think he could _stay here_ —?

"Oh," Guinevere huffed, loudly, "have some _sense_ , Arthur! Do you _really_ fancy going 'round like _that_?" She jabbed a finger in his face.

Arthur frowned. No, he _didn't_ , actually, but he would take a broken nose over a bit of _actual magic_ _on his actual face_ in a heartbeat. Except. "Does it really look _that_ bad?" If only he could get a proper look at it for himself, but he didn't see a mirror anywhere in the tent. Come to think of it, he didn't think he had _ever_ seen a mirror in a druid camp. Did they have some sort of thing against vanity, or something?

"Let's just say, it looks like Gwaine really _did_ try to tear off half your face."

Arthur scowled. On second thought, perhaps he should be grateful he _couldn't_ see it for himself. "Thank you, Sir Elyan."

"Always, Sire."

Iseldir cleared his throat. "Well. May I?" He set the basket down at his feet and lifted a silver brow at Arthur.

No. Absolutely not. No, all right, fine, if he had to say it, well, he would go on and he would say it, because it was the truth, and he liked to think of himself as the sort of man that didn't shrink away from the truth. All right. So. He'd say it. He had never actually met a bad druid before. He had never actually met an evil druid. He had never actually met a druid that had tried to do him harm. Hell, he had never even met a druid that had tried to do _his father_ harm. But he would be a damned fool, wouldn't he, to just hand this old man the means to hurt him, to enchant him, to put him under a spell of some kind. Sure, yes, all right, Iseldir _looked_ all kind and frail and innocent, but that didn't mean he was actually all kind and frail and innocent! He could be anything but, for all Arthur knew!

But.

"No," he said, instead of any of that, because none of that sounded very much like a grateful guest, and that was what he had to be right now, wasn't it, that was the part he had to play here until he could get back to the castle, and save the kingdom, "no. Thank you. It will heal on its own, I'm sure."

Iseldir didn't look like he believed that, but he didn't push it. That seemed to be his way. Don't push. Go with the flow. Take what he could get, take as much as he could get, and be glad for it, be glad he got that much. He turned to Gwaine instead. "And what of you? Perhaps I could mend—" he tipped his head at the dried blood, still flecked thick on Gwaine's knuckles, and the purple bruises blooming like flowers just beneath, "— _that_?"

"With _magic_?" Gwaine said, just like Arthur, his brown eyes enormous in his face, except, _not_ like Arthur, he couldn't have sounded more excited about if he had _tried_. "Hell yeah! Let's do it!"

Iseldir's mouth quirked up at the edge in a small smile. "As you wish, Sir Gwaine."

Arthur wasn't going to go outside. He was _not_ going to go outside. He wasn't going to do that. He wasn't going to be so obvious about it. No. He had seen magic loads of times. On raids and in attacks and battles and fights and things, yes, of course he had seen it, so he wasn't going to go outside, he was _not_ going to go outside, and he was _not_ going to look away, he was not going to turn his head, he was not going to shut his eyes, no, of course not, that would just be stupid, he could look at it, he could stand here and he could look at it, he could see the gold light up the old man's eyes, he _had_ to do it, he _had_ to stand here and he _had_ to see it, because—

—a little shudder trailed down his spine—

— _because I have to be sure he's not going to hurt Gwaine, instead of me, I have to be sure he's not enchanting Gwaine, I have to be sure he's not putting Gwaine under a spell, I have to be sure, and God, I should have done it, I should have just done it, I should have let him heal me, I should have done it first, to make sure it's safe, to make sure Gwaine wouldn't get hurt_ —

"Nice one!"

Oh.

It was over.

It was already over. Already.

Gwaine held his hand up in the air—he flexed his strong fingers—he formed a fist so tight, all his veins bunched up and stood out under the skin, and his knuckles turned white as the snow and the ice outside—he was healed, and he was all right, and the bruises and the blood had gone—he rubbed, lightly, at the back of his hand, before he dropped his arm down to his side and beamed at Iseldir. "Thanks. Feels great."

"I am glad to hear it," Iseldir dipped his head, and his smile got a bit warmer, a bit wider. "You are very welcome indeed, Sir Gwaine." He stooped to pick his basket back up off the floor again. "Perhaps your party will consider joining us for the morning meal? We will be breaking our fast in a moment. We would be delighted to welcome you there."

 _Oh, no, no_ —Arthur shook his head, almost on reflex, because he didn't actually want to, he didn't actually mean to, he just sort of _did_ —no, no, he couldn't do that, remember, don't leave the tent, just don't leave the tent, just stick to the tent, and he would be all right—if he just _didn't leave the tent_ , maybe he wouldn't have to see any magic at all—except, well, that hadn't actually _worked_ , had it, because he had _already_ had to see Iseldir, with Gwaine's hand—

"Oh, yes," Guinevere nodded, so hard her dark brown curls bounced around her pretty face, "yes, certainly, we will do that. Thank you so much, really. I don't know how we will ever repay you."

But Iseldir merely smiled. " _Please_ , Guinevere, I have told you, there is no need. It is reward enough to aid Emrys' chosen companions."

 _Emrys_. There it was again. That name. Every hair on the back of Arthur's neck quivered and shot straight up. There was power in that name. There was magic in that name. He didn't have to be a sorcerer to know that. To _feel_ it.

"Emrys?" But Guinevere got there first. "You've said that twice now." She cocked her dark, curly head to the side. "Who _is_ that?"

"Yes," Arthur huffed, a bit put out _he_ hadn't gotten to ask the really big question here, but never mind, never mind, trust Guinevere to always think of everything, anyway, "and how, exactly, can we be his 'companions' if we've never actually _met_ him?"

"Oh," Iseldir's smile had a bit of an edge to it, now, "oh, but you _have_ , Arthur Pendragon. Many, many times. He is the dearest and the truest friend you have ever known. One day, you will see that."

 _The dearest and the truest friend. The dearest and the truest friend_. But what the _hell_ did that mean? He didn't know a man called Emrys! He really didn't! Really! He would remember it if he did, he was certain of that—the name wasn't a common one, it wasn't the sort of thing he had ever heard out on the streets of Camelot, so he would know if he had ever heard it before, but—but why did Iseldir seem to think he had? Why did Iseldir seem to think he really did know Emrys? Why did Iseldir seem to think Emrys was his friend?

But before he could get even one question off his lips, the old druid had lifted the little orange flap, and disappeared from the tent.

Which was absolutely and entirely and utterly unfair, because Arthur still had questions, Arthur still had a lot of questions, actually, lots and lots of questions, about this odd little "Emrys" bloke! Hell, this odd little Emrys bloke didn't even make any _sense_! Why would Iseldir call the man Arthur's friend if the man had hidden himself all this time? Why would Iseldir call the man Arthur's friend if Arthur had never actually _met the man_ before? Because he hadn't! He hadn't! Not ever! Not once! He would know that! He would remember that! Right? Wouldn't he? Wouldn't he _remember_ that?

"Well," Gwaine said, and far too brightly, into the thick, heavy silence settling in within the canvas walls, "don't know 'bout the rest of you lot, but I'm _starving_. Saving prissy little princesses really takes it out of you. Shall we have some breakfast, then?"

* * *

Merlin had thought Morgana would want to deal with him as quick as she could—she had just crowned herself the queen of Camelot, and surely she had bigger things to do, right, surely she had bigger things to tend to and think about and handle, surely the king's servant didn't matter so much to her, even if the king's servant _did_ have magic? Surely, she'd just pick an empty dungeon and stuff him inside, surely she'd just lock him up and leave him, wouldn't she? Surely she would just want to get him shut away so she could tend to and think about and handle other things, bigger things, the things that _actually mattered_ , but she stormed straight past the long line of barred, bolted-up, little cells all down the dark, cold corridor—she didn't even stop to look inside a single one, like she already knew where she wanted to take Merlin, like she already knew where she wanted to put him, like she already knew where she wanted him to go—

But _Merlin_ looked.

Merlin looked inside.

The dim, golden glow of the low fires in the hall made it hard for him to make out much, and the people behind all the bolts and bars looked like mere shadows, blurry and black, on the stone walls, but if he leaned in, he could just see all the frightened and filthy faces staring back at him, eyes wide, hair tangled and dirty and matted, cheeks smeared with soot and grime, and his heart twisted up in a tight knot in his chest.

No one in there _should_ be in there.

No one in there—no one, no one at all, not one frightened, filthy face staring back at him with wide eyes and tangled hair and grimy cheeks, not one, not one single soul in that cell belonged in that cell at all. Not one single soul should be in that cell at all. No one. And he had done this. He had done it. He had put them all there with his own damned hands, hadn't he, because he wasn't fast enough to save them, to stop Morgana, he wasn't smart enough to stop Morgana, he wasn't strong enough to stop her, he wasn't good enough, and he hadn't tried hard enough, he hadn't _fought_ hard enough, it was all his fault, it all came back to him, in a circle, in a loop, _he_ had done this, he had done this to everyone, and he—

—he—

"Merlin?"

 _Oh._

Merlin's breath stopped dead in his chest, in his throat, and his heart—his knotted, twisted-up heart—jumped so high, it lodged up in the back of his mouth, and it stayed there, it _stuck_ there, so big he couldn't swallow it down, so big he couldn't spit it out, so big he could choke on it, but he didn't care—he didn't care, he didn't, he didn't care, he didn't think he had ever cared less about anything in his whole life, because—

—because—

" _Gaius?"_

Oh. Oh, Goddess, oh, Goddess, oh, thank the Goddess, thank the Triple Goddess, Gaius was here, right here, _really_ here, oh, Goddess, Gaius was _really here_ , and he was _alive_ and he was _all right_ , and Merlin hadn't let himself hope, hadn't really, truly let himself hope Gaius could be alive, he hadn't really, truly let himself hope Gaius could be all right, but oh, here he was, right here, really here, and he was alive, and he was all right, and—

—and—

No.

No, Gaius _wasn't_ all right. Not really. He was trapped, in that horrid little cell, with knights and squires and guards and lords and ladies and stable boys and kitchen girls, packed in shoulder-to-shoulder with all the rest, his clean white hair nearly black now with mud and dirt, hanging 'round his withered old face in tangled, filthy clumps, and his long red robe streaked and smeared with grime, and—Merlin's knotted, twisted-up heart jumped again—Leon and Percival stood just behind the old man. The two knights looked so thin, so battered and frail, stripped of silver mail and scarlet cloaks and thick tunics, even, nothing but ragged, muddied trousers to cover up, pale skin stretched taut over sharp ribs—but _alive, they're alive, they're all alive_ , and for half a moment, Merlin really thought he might cry, actually cry, with the fierce, heady joy of it, so strong in his heart, it almost hurt—it hadn't really hit him, he hadn't really let it hit him until right this moment—the fear, the terror, the panic—Goddess, he had been so scared, he had been so terrified, he had really thought he would—he had _really thought_ he would _never_ see Gaius again—

"Merlin," Gaius reached a red-robed arm out, through the wooden bars, and he grabbed Merlin's hand up in his own, like he—like he justwanted to _touch_ Merlin, like that was all he wanted, to touch, to _hold_ —

—and Merlin was too old for that, he was far too old for that, to be held, to _want_ to be held, even, but right now, right this moment, he would give up everything he had ever had if he could just sink down in one of Gaius' warm and wonderful hugs again, even if he couldn't hold back a hiss of pain at just the touch of Gaius' hand on his blistered palm, even if he didn't know if he _could_ have a hug, right now, with his shoulder the way it was—

"Merlin," hardly a whisper, in the still, stale air of the dark corridor, and weak, wrinkled fingers squeezed Merlin's knuckles, "are you all right?"

Oh. Merlin's heart twisted again, and it was a hurt so much sharper than his shoulder and his blisters and burns could ever be. _Oh, Gaius_ , because _of course_ , in his cell, in his little dungeon, exhausted and filthy and imprisoned and so starved, his robes hung half off him, and he looked nothing but skin and bone, but _of course_ he wanted to make sure _Merlin_ was all right, of course he wanted to do that, of course he did, because that was just Gaius, wasn't it, that was just Gaius all over, that was all he _ever_ wanted, really, that was all he ever _did_ , look after everybody else, take care of everybody else, and never mind his own lot, never mind his own lot when he could see to someone else, never mind his own lot, no, even trapped in a dungeon and wrapped up in chains, he still cared more for Merlin than he ever did for himself, and _please, Gaius, please, just think of yourself, just this once, please think of yourself, only yourself, won't you ever just think of yourself_ —

"Merlin?" Soft and tired as Gaius sounded, his words still echoed on and on down the dark corridor and his old eyes took it all in—Merlin didn't know the way he looked right now, he didn't know if he looked even half so awful as he felt, but the dull ache in his cheek, the purple bruise Sir Ector had left there, and the sting of the open, bloody cuts at his brow, and the burn of the hot metal, the collar, at his throat, and he knew Gaius could see it, he knew Gaius could see all of it, and— "oh, my boy," the old man dropped his words down to a mere whisper, and he dropped his eyes down to Merlin's hands, to the puckered, pink welts all swollen up on his fingers, "what on earth have they _done_ to you?"

Merlin's throat pulled tight— _no, don't do that, don't do that, Gaius, please, don't do that, don't ask that, don't ask me that, I can't tell you, I can't, I can't tell you the truth, I just can't do it, I just can't, because if you knew, if I told you, if you knew all the things I've done, all the things I've just stepped back and let happen to me, if you knew that, if you knew all of that, you'd hate me, you'd hate me forever, you wouldn't be so nice to me like this, if only you knew, if only you knew what I'd done, if only you knew the truth, you'd never hug me again, you'd never hold my hand like this, you'd never be so nice to me like this, not ever, you'd never even look at me, not ever again, if you knew, if you knew the truth, you wouldn't_ —

— _you wouldn't love me anymore—_

"I'm sorry," Merlin said, instead of any of that, and his words sounded thick and hoarse, in his own ears, with all the tears he held back, "I—I'm sorry, Gaius, I'm so sorry, Gaius, I—I messed up, I-I really messed up, Gaius, I messed up, and I'm s-sorry—"

"Oh," Morgana's sharp, ice-cold voice echoed, loud as a scream, in the quiet corridor, and cut quicker than a blade through Merlin's rushed, pathetic little whispers, "oh, how _sweet_."

Merlin had forgotten Morgana. Goddess, for one full moment, he had actually forgotten her, he had actually—Goddess, but he had actually thought _everything is all right now, everything is going to be all right now, because Gaius is here, he never has to know the truth, never, ever, he can just be here and he can make everything all right, always, because he always knows what to do, Gaius always knows how to make things better, Gaius can make anything better_ , like a _child_ , he sounded so much like a child when he put it like that, but—

Morgana smiled, little more than a tight, bitter quirk of the mouth, and a definite edge of danger in the curve of her lip, but at least she looked at Merlin, not Gaius, because if she looked at Merlin, that meant she would hurt him, didn't it, that meant she would lash out at him, she would take it out on him, not Gaius, and that was all right, that was good, she _should_ hurt him, she _should_ take it out on him, not Gaius, he could take it far better than Gaius, so it was good, let her hurt him, let her take it out on him, he wouldn't fight back if that meant she would never, ever turn her wrath on Gaius.

"Lovely things," she arched her dark brows at him, "reunions, aren't they?"

Merlin didn't take his eyes off Morgana, because he was so scared if he looked at Gaius, even for a moment, _she_ would look at Gaius, too, and she would change her mind, she would hurt him, instead, she would hurt Gaius instead, she would take it out on Gaius instead, and he could never, ever let her do that, he could never let that happen, not to Gaius. Goddess, he was scared to _talk_ , even, because if he said the wrong thing, if he made Gaius' lot worse, if he made anyone's lot worse than it had already gotten inside that cell—

"Well, I'm so very sorry, but it seems we'll have to cut it short." Morgana heaved a soft little sigh. "Shame, isn't it? The two of you simply haven't the time to catch up."

In the dark and the dead quiet of the corridor, Merlin didn't need to see, and he didn't need to _hear_ , to feel the way Gaius' wrinkled hand slipped back down to his own, the way the short, withered fingers curled up tight around his, and it hurt like hell, all the burns hurt like hell, but Merlin would swallow fire before he would pull away.

"Take a good look, old man," and Morgana _did_ look at Gaius, then, she really _did_ look at Gaius, with that tight, bitter quirk of her mouth, with that edge of danger on her lip, "I fear this may be the last time you will ever see him."

Gaius pressed his lips together until his mouth turned thin and white, and for one wild moment, Merlin could swear he was going to shout at Morgana, to _scream_ at her, and _oh, Goddess, Gaius, no, please, don't anger her, don't make her angry, please, don't give her another reason to hurt you_ —but, finally, the old man merely dipped his white head, and took a small step back, deeper into the dark and grime of the little cell. He untangled his hand from Merlin's, dropped his arm back to his side, and stared down at the grimy stone floor under his feet.

Merlin's whole hand ached with how much he wanted Gaius, or anyone, to come back and hold it again.

"But you need not worry," the tight, bitter quirk flicked up in a real smile, thin and sharp and sick—like Agravaine, like a shark showing all its teeth—and she leaned in through the bars until her nose nearly touched the old man's, "you may rest assured. I will take _good care_ of your boy for you, Gaius."

Morgana lashed out, so quick, like the strike of a snake—she grabbed onto Merlin's shoulder again, long, pale fingers fisted in the thick brown cloth of his jacket—it wasn't so bad this time, because she didn't wrench or twist or pull this time, but the pain of it still snatched the breath from Merlin's lungs, still yanked a choked gasp from his mouth, hard as he tried to swallow it back, to keep it in, to grit his teeth so it wouldn't slip out, because he didn't want Gaius to hear it, he didn't want Gaius to _know_ , he didn't want Gaius to worry—

"Come along, Emrys," Morgana murmured, in his ear, and pushed him on, down the dark corridor, away from the cell, away from Gaius, "we're going to have _lots_ of fun together, aren't we?"

"Leave—leave him alone," Merlin finally got it out of his mouth, soft and breathless and weak, with the pain in his shoulder, like a knife, like a blade, lodged all the way down to the bone, "l-leave him alone, leave G-Gaius alone, he's never _done_ anything to you, he's done nothing to _deserve_ —"

"Hasn't he?" Morgana narrowed her eyes at him. "Or perhaps you've forgotten how he left me alone? How he watched me crawl around, blind, with magic I could not control, magic he _refused_ to help me master? Have you forgotten that, Emrys? Well. _I wish I could_."

"I-It's me—" Merlin's shoulder throbbed, like Morgana had grabbed the knife and twisted it, around and around and around, until the bone cracked clean in two, but he had to go on, he had to go on, he had to try and get through to her, to make her see, even if it was hopeless, even if he knew he couldn't, even if he knew a hatred as deep and black and burning as Morgana's could never really be doused, "—it's me you want. It was me who left you alone. Not Gaius." It hurt just to say it. It burned on the way out of his mouth. But it was true. It was all true. It was all his fault. This horrible, twisted thing Morgana had become was all his fault. All because of him. If he had only helped her. If he had only showed her she wasn't alone. "I-I betrayed you, it was me. Not him. Not Gaius. Not anyone in that dungeon. Just me."

"Oh, don't you worry, Emrys. You will pay for what you've done. Just as they have. You can be sure of that."

With this last, Morgana finally pulled to a stop at the end of the corridor.

But it was only a blank wooden wall back here—no bolted-up cells, no small rooms, no bars or doors or windows, even, just the dark stretch of dirty wall, and a thin, rickety little wooden ladder to the side, going down and down and down into a—into a tiny, dark _hole_ —

Merlin's stomach dropped. Stupid. That was stupid. That was so stupid. He had faced worse. He had faced so much worse. But it looked—his heart beat a little too quick—it looked _so small_ down there—

" _Down."_

Morgana prodded a finger, hard, into the skin of his shoulder, and his breath snagged on the sharp edge of the shock and pain, but he—he didn't have a choice, did he, because she would only do worse, she would only hurt him worse, if he didn't listen to her, if he didn't do as she had said, if he _didn't_ go down there.

He had to haul himself down the little ladder with only one hand, the other limp and useless at his side, and he had to grit his teeth until his whole mouth throbbed just so he wouldn't scream out loud at the strain of it, and maybe Morgana had helped him, maybe Morgana pushed him down there with a bit of magic, because he really didn't think he could have ever made it all on his own, but, one way or another, he got to the end.

He got all the way to the end.

It was even smaller than it had looked from up there. It was so small. It was so, so small, and he couldn't stand up, he couldn't stand up straight, he could hardly _sit up_ , even, it was all he could do to _crouch_ , to just crouch here, his back pressed hard to a thick, slimy stone wall, and his long legs tucked up on the slick, filthy floor under him. He stretched his eyes as wide as he could, he strained and strained but it was all dark, all dark, he couldn't see, _he couldn't see_ —

"Welcome to your new home, Emrys. I do hope you'll be _comfortable_!"

The vicious, proud shout had hardly left Morgana's lips—she loomed so high over him, so much taller than him, so much bigger than him, or maybe—maybe he had gotten smaller, maybe he had gotten smaller and smaller and smaller, maybe, this whole time, he had been shrinking down and down and down, ever since Agravaine had kissed him at Arthur's coronation, ever since Agravaine had put his hands all over and all around and up inside, maybe it had all made Merlin smaller and smaller and smaller, maybe it had all made Merlin shrink and shrink and shrink down to nothing, until he was nothing, until he was nothing at all—and she reached a hand down into the dark hole, and she yanked the ladder back up with her.

Merlin's heart lurched in his chest to see it go—stupid, stupid, he had barely gotten all the way down the ladder on his own, what made him think he could have ever climbed back up, with his shoulder the way it was, and without any magic of his own—?

Something hard and heavy and thick—a stone, maybe, or even a small slab of shapeless metal—slammed down over the hole.

The last of the light dimmed right down to nothing, and Morgana was gone.

* * *

 **Notes: Pretty sure this is actually a bit shorter than last time by a few hundred words, but damn, this one just _feels_ really long to me. It just feels like this one kind of goes on forever. but everything in here really _needed_ to be in here. If I don't start condensing two or three chapters into one real soon, this sorry son of a bitch will _never_ end, and y'all will just be stuck with me forever. no one wants that. that is not the desired outcome for this fic. **

**Anyways, on GOD, I have been waiting for literally EVER to get the druids in play, and to bring Gaius back, like, in case y'all can't tell, your humble, starving author is just an absolute on-fire garbage can for one (1) Gaius the Court Physician! i just? love him? so much? and it made me so sad to send him away all the back in Ch3, because I knew we wouldn't see him again for a real hot sec, but it just had to be done! Gaius is the whole-ass backbone of Merlin's support system, and if he'd had someone to turn to, I think he would have come clean at some point, so, unfortunately, Gaius had to be removed from the narrative real quick. Now he's back to stay, though! For real. The old guy ain't going anywhere for the rest of the fic. he is here to lead the Unconditionally Love and Support Merlin Squad lmao. (Gwaine and Gwen are his fellow co-leaders. Arthur is... getting there.)**

 **As always, thank you all so, so much for your support! Your humble, starving author would be nowhere without all the kindness and support you've given, and your humble, starving author is so unbelievably grateful for (and indescribably astonished by!) it.**


	16. I'm Not There For You

"Sometimes, I'm a selfish fake,

You're always a true friend,

I don't deserve you,

Because I'm not there for you,

Though I wish I could be."

- _There For You_ , Flyleaf

* * *

Arthur wasn't really very sure of a lot of things right now—he wasn't really very sure if he could ever come up with a way to take down Morgana, he wasn't really very sure if he could ever come up with a way to take his kingdom back from her, he wasn't really very sure if his people would even _want_ him to return to the throne, if his people would even trust him any longer after he had let the crown fall so easily into enemy hands _again_ , and honestly, he couldn't blame them, any of them, if that was the way it turned out, and he was really not very sure at all if he could ever figure out what to do with Merlin when he finally got back to the castle, when he finally had to face the man again—but he was very, absolutely sure of one thing.

If he had only known every last druid in the entire camp would snap 'round and stare at him the second he stepped out of the tent, he would have _stayed_ in the tent, and no big mess like this, no fuss or hassle or stir like this, if he had only known, if he had only known every last druid in the entire camp would look at him like _this_ , all wide-eyed and wary and terrified out of their magical little minds, all tensed up like taut bowstrings, he would have stayed in the tent. Much better. Much simpler. No fuss. No hassle. No stir.

Honestly, what did the druids think he was going to _do_ ,even? Strangle a bunny? Leave a kitten up in a tree? Snap a newborn pup's neck? Toss a child in the creek? Come on, this was ridiculous! He hadn't done a thing wrong! _He hadn't even pulled out his sword_! And he was only here at all because Guinevere and Gwaine and Elyan had dragged him here! It wasn't like he had _wanted_ to come here! It wasn't like he wanted to _be here_! It wasn't like he was going to _stick around_! As soon as the storm had cleared up, he was going to go, he was going to leave, he was going to turn around and head right back out in the wood, and _thank God_! He certainly wasn't going to linger here any longer than the druids _wanted_ him to linger here! He was very, absolutely sure of _that_ , too!

But it wasn't really up to him right now. _Nothing_ was really up to him right now. So he could only slump silently down onto a hard, hollow log pulled up near the small, smoky fire, with Guinevere and Elyan settled in on the wood beside him, and Gwaine slouched over on the other side of the flame. The old druid, Iseldir, got up and handed Arthur a little wooden plate piled with food.

"Thank you," Arthur murmured, with a quick dip of his head at the druid, but he only put the dish down in his lap, on his knees, and he found he could hardly even look at it at all. Even if the sweet, fruity scent hadn't made his stomach twist up in knots, he had far too much else on his mind right now to even think of food. Morgana. Camelot. The people. Oh, God.

 _The people_.

Morgana would hurt the people, he knew that—he was really very absolutely sure of that, too, but he would give up everything he had ever had if only he _wasn't_ so sure, if only Morgana had ever left him any room to doubt, but she hadn't, she hadn't, and she _would_ hurt the people, he knew it, and maybe she already had? Maybe Morgana already had hurt the people? Maybe she had already rounded them all up and locked them away in little cells or maybe she had shut them all down in deep, dark dungeons? Maybe she had slaughtered them all? Maybe she had burned them on pyres and hanged them on gallows? Maybe she had burned down all the homes, maybe she had burned down all the crops, scorched all the fields down to nothing, down to ash and cinder and ember, maybe she would starve them, all of them, every last soul within the city, and, oh, God, she would really do it, wouldn't she? She would really do all of that, wouldn't she?

And, even if he _could_ save his people, even if he _did_ save his people, even if there were any people left alive to save, once Morgana was done with them, even with all of that, _Merlin_ was _still_ a sorcerer, Merlin _still_ had _magic_ , Merlin was still aliar, a _traitor_ , and he—

—he—

— _he saved me, he saved my life,_ Guinevere had said, screamed, really, _he saved my life, all the glass was going to fall and hit me, and it didn't, because he saved me, he shoved me down, he shoved me out of the way, he put his own body over mine, to protect me, to make sure he would get hit instead_ and he had saved Arthur, too, the knife at the feast, the knife the old lady had slipped out of her long golden sleeve, nothing in it for him, but he had still saved Arthur, he had still put his life on the line for Arthur, he hadn't even _known_ Arthur, he hadn't even _liked_ Arthur, he had slept a whole night down in the dungeons because of Arthur, he had gotten hours and hours in the stocks because of Arthur, and evil sorcerers could carry heavy grudges a very long way, except Merlin _hadn't_ , and what if that meant something? What if that really, actually meant something? What if it wasn't all a lie? What if Merlin _wasn't_ a mask? What if Merlin was really _real_?

And now there was all this _Emrys_ business, too. The name still echoed, over and over, in Arthur's head, and it lingered like a black shadow in the back of his mind, and it still made his skin tingle and prickle, it still felt like an old friend, and he knew that was ridiculous, he knew that was mad, he knew it didn't make any sense, but maybe, if the name made him feel like this, maybe Emrys was important? Kind of?

All right. Fine. It was a stupid thing to get stuck on. A name. Arthur knew that. He had a far bigger headache on his hands right now—he had a kingdom to take back, a castle to storm, a crown to reclaim, a witch to overcome, a whole city to save, except he—

—he _couldn't_.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he had to face the truth. If he tried to rush off right this moment, he would only make everything worse for himself and his friends, and there would be no one left in all the world to save Camelot in her darkest hour. So it seemed the only thing he could do, right now, was—

He put his plate down in the ice and snow at his feet, leaned up a little on the log, and looked the old druid straight in the eyes.

"Tell me about Emrys."

Right now, he couldn't ride off and save his kingdom.

But, right now, he could do _this_.

Iseldir raised his silver brows and smiled his usual warm, kind smile. " _That_ is certainly a very broad request, Arthur Pendragon. You must know there is much to say of one so great." He took a quick, quiet sip from the rough wooden cup clutched in his wrinkled hands before he went on. "Perhaps it would be easier if you could simply tell me what you would like to know?"

"I—I don't know him," Arthur said, because it was the only thing he could really think to say, in that moment, "I don't know any man called Emrys, I'm certain of that, yet—" _yet it feels like I do, it feels like, maybe, I did, only I forgot, and now I don't know what's real and what's not, I don't know if I ever really knew him at all, but I think maybe you do, I think maybe you know, I think maybe you can tell me the truth_ , "—yet you say I do."

A little frown creased Iseldir's kind, open face. He leaned back a bit on his own log. "I see," he said, very softly, almost to himself, really, like he didn't actually want Arthur to hear a word of it at all. "I see." He nodded, once, short and sharp. "You have misunderstood."

Arthur scowled. Really, it was a very simple thing he had asked of Iseldir—did he actually know a man called Emrys, or did he _not_ actually know a man called Emrys? Had he gone 'round the twist or had he not? Had he made it all up in his own head or did he really know that name the way it felt like he did? Was Emrys merely a story he had told to himself, so much, and so well, he actually believed it now? Or was it really _real_? "No," he huffed, "no, I'm really quite sure I haven't, actually." _I'm pretty sure_ you _have misunderstood,_ except he couldn't come out and say that, he could only bite his bottom lip and _not_ look at Guinevere, or Gwaine, or Elyan, because he _could_ feel their eyes on him, burning little black holes in him.

"I _did not_ ," Iseldir said, very calm but very firm, and it was like Arthur hadn't even opened his mouth at all, "say you _know_ Emrys. I believe I merely said you _have met_ him. And there is a difference, Arthur Pendragon. A vast one. I would urge you to learn it, and learn it well, before you face him again, or you will surely repeat your last mistakes."

Arthur blinked. "What?" _Last mistakes?_ What did _that_ bit mean? Had he done something wrong with Emrys? Had he made some sort of mistake last time he had seen Emrys? Had he wronged Emrys in some sort of way? To say absolutely nothing of all that other rubbish! "I—I think if I've _met_ him, it's pretty safe to say I _know_ him."

"I am sorry, Arthur Pendragon," Iseldir dipped his head again, "but you are wrong."

Arthur ripped open his mouth— _no, I am not wrong, you old madman, you can't say I've met Emrys but I don't know him, that's absolutely ridiculous, that makes no sense at all_ —

"I—I think," perhaps Guinevere could see or sense the furious words in the back of his mouth, because she cut in before he could say a thing, and, much as he didn't like it, he knew it was likely for the best, "I think what he's trying to say is, who _is_ Emrys? You've told us his name, but nothing else."

Iseldir smiled his warm, kind smile again, at Guinevere now, and he put his wooden cup back down. "That has been my mistake. Please forgive the rudeness, and allow me to correct it. Emrys," he whispered, and his whole, wrinkled face seemed to almost shine with the name, like he had filled up with light from the inside, and his voice flooded up with this soft, breathless _reverence_ , almost, like he called upon a king, like he called upon a _god_ , even, "is the greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth."

Arthur's heart thudded. _The greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth_? No wonder the name made his skin tingle and prickle. This was a threat to Camelot even bigger than Morgana herself. _The greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth_. Could the kingdom even withstand such magic? Such _power_?

"Oh," Gwaine said, a touch faintly, his brown eyes very wide in his face, "is that _all_?"

"He is the hero of prophecy. The champion of magic. The warrior we have awaited all these years." Iseldir's old, pale eyes still glistened bright with a beam like the sun itself. "He is the slayer of wicked monsters, the bane of blood traitors, the master of life and death, the last High Lord and Priest of the Old Religion, the sole defender of all Albion, the one true lover of the Lady of the Lake, the _undeadlic_ , the _godbearn_ , the _bealucræft cyning_. He is the light in the dark. He is the way back to the sun."

The hero of prophecy? The champion of magic? The master of life and death? Sharp jolts of dread and fear, almost too big for his own body to hold, stabbed at Arthur like jagged-edged blades with every new name the old druid added on. If this Emrys turned out to be even half so powerful as Iseldir said, Camelot hadn't a hope against him. Camelot had no match for that kind of magic. Camelot had no match for this man.

" _And_ ," Iseldir glanced over at Arthur, his mysterious smile bigger and broader than ever, like he really wanted Arthur to hear this, like he really wanted to make sure Arthur listened to this bit, "guardian, guide, and great friend to King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot."

 _Guardian, guide, and great friend_? What bit of that was Arthur actually supposed to believe? Because not a single word of it made any sense at all. He was _no friend_ of sorcerers, for a start, and sorcerers were _certainly_ no friends of his! Hell, half the sorcerers he had ever known had tried to _murder him_! And the other half usually had it out for Guinevere, or his father, or one of his knights or—! And all that _guardian_ nonsense. All that _guide_ nonsense. Like Arthur was a _child_. Like he was only a mere boy, too silly and stupid and small to ever really rule on his own, like he was some sort of puppet, and this Emrys held the strings tight in his hands. Like he actually needed to be guarded. To be guided.

No. Absolutely not.

Arthur could not believe it. He would not believe it.

But he didn't even get the chance to say a word of it before Gwaine let out a sort of sputter. _"Why?"_

Iseldir only frowned. Thin silver brows arched up again. "I beg your pardon, Sir Gwaine?"

Gwaine raked a rough hand through his thick, dark hair. "All right, _why_? It makes no sense! The greatest sorcerer in the world wants to buddy up with _him_?" He jabbed a dirty finger at Arthur. "Why? He hasn't done a damn thing for magic! Forget _loyalty_ here, this Emrys bloke doesn't owe him _a moldy loaf of bread_!"

Arthur nodded. He certainly could live his whole life without that _moldy loaf of bread_ bit tossed in, but Gwaine had reached over and nearly snatched the words right out of his own mouth. He should probably be a bit annoyed about that, but honestly, he was actually rather grateful. At least _he_ didn't have to say it now. At least he didn't have to say _this actually makes absolutely no sense at all, do you really expect me to believe such an obvious load of complete rubbish_. At least he didn't have to ask _what does Emrys want with me, what_ can _Emrys want with me?_

Iseldir's frown got bigger. "Camelot has done magic many great wrongs," he said, very slowly, "that is true. I do not deny it. I do not ignore it. And I certainly do not forget it. Nor does Emrys."

Arthur's cheeks flared hot, and he snapped up, straight as a steel rod, on the log. Perhaps it had slipped Iseldir's old, feeble little mind, but Camelot had certainly _not_ done magic "many great wrongs"! Or, well, if it had, it was only because _magic_ had done _Camelot_ "many great wrongs" _first_! All the things his father had done, all the sorcerers hanged and burned and beheaded, all the spellbooks tossed in blazing bonfires, all the histories he had hidden away in unseen rooms and shadowed corners, all the—

—all the secrets he kept, even from his own son, and all the homes and families torn to pieces, ripped apart, all the innocents slaughtered, a hundred thousand all condemned with no hard evidence, no real _proof_ , a hundred thousand wide-eyed, terrified, tearstained faces Arthur could _never forget_ because _maybe they had magic, they couldn't prove they didn't have magic, we must take all precautions with sorcerers, Arthur, we cannot allow this evil to grow in the very heart of the kingdom itself_ —

"But," Iseldir never actually got louder than a soft, slow murmur, like the gentle babble of a forest brook, but in the thick silence all around them, amid the jumbled whirl of Arthur's own mind, it sounded very much like a scream, "Emrys, like us all within this camp, bears no grudge. Quite the contrary, I'd say."

Arthur blinked. Emrys. Right. Of course. Emrys. It all came back to Emrys. It had to come back to Emrys. The sorcerer had to matter in some way, or Arthur wouldn't feel the way he did about it. "What—?" He lifted his heavy, aching head up a little more. "What do you mean?"

Iseldir turned his grey head to look around the camp. " _We_ bear no grudge, as I have said, but I fear we are much in the minority. Many sorcerers seek to destroy you and your kingdom."

That did not make Arthur feel any better. At all. "Yes," he scowled, "I _have_ picked up on that, actually, believe it or not."

" _And_ ," Iseldir said, perhaps a touch sharply—like Arthur had cut him off in the middle, like he hadn't gotten to the end—and his pale eyes flicked back over to Arthur again, "time after time, it is Emrys—a _sorcerer_ —who delivers you safely from the wrath of our kind."

 _What?_ Arthur snapped his head up to look Iseldir full in the face, straight in the old, pale, mysterious eyes, and already, he could taste the words in his mouth, the denial, the refusal— _no, that's rubbish, that's absolutely rubbish, come off it, that's ridiculous, I don't need saving, I'm the King of Camelot, I don't need to be saved, and even if I did, why would a sorcerer save me, why would a sorcerer ever step in and save me, he must know it would be far easier to stand back and let me die, and even if he really did do it, even if he really did lend a hand once or twice, why hasn't he ever shown himself to me, why hasn't he ever stepped up and claimed the credit, why hasn't he ever asked me to reward him, or return the favor, because he could, and surely, he knows he could, surely he knows he could demand a great deal of me, so why—?_

Wasn't that the question of the hour right now? _Why_? That was the bit Arthur really couldn't get his head around. That was the bit he couldn't riddle out on his own. That was the bit he had to come right back to every single time. If Iseldir had really got it right, if Iseldir had really told the truth, and Emrys really _did_ fight sorcerers, if Emrys really did fight his kind, if Emrys really had set himself against his own, Arthur still didn't know _why_.

The greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth, with all the power of an actual, literal god in his hands, _hadn't_ gone ahead and conquered the entire world with one flick of his little finger. The greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth had looked out upon the very _not_ -conquered world and _hadn't_ made a move to reign on high over all. The greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth had looked out upon the world and picked _Arthur_ out of all the people, out of all the kings and queens and royals in all of Albion. Emrys had looked out upon the world, and no doubt he had seen greater and nobler and fiercer and braver and better, he had seen the kind of king Arthur could only dream to be, and he had still picked Arthur.

He had still picked Arthur. And, if Iseldir had it right, he had saved Arthur, over and over, again and again, but he had never even stepped out of the shadows to say so, to tell Arthur, to show himself, to say, _look at me, look at me and know I've done so much for you, know I've done everything for you, all for you_ —

— _it was all for you, everything was all for you, everything, always, for you, I did everything for you, it was all for you, it was you, it was always, always you,_ and the sharp _thud_ of the door as Arthur slammed it back in its thick frame behind him and the filthy, tearstained face, puffy eyes all rimmed in red, staring out at him through the big wooden bars—

"I—" Arthur shook his head, and his entire skull ached, from his temples to his brow and back again, "—I don't understand."

" _Yeah_ ," Gwaine snorted, "join the club, Princess. Pretty sure I missed something big here. What the hell is Emrys' deal? Why is he so hung upon _you_?"

 _I only wish I knew_. Arthur rubbed at the side of his head, but the light touch of his own hand couldn't wipe away the dull ache deep under his skin.

"Wait," Elyan bolted straight up in his seat, his brown eyes wide in his face, "d'you think Emrys learned magic all for _you_? Because _that_ —" he pulled a little face, "—that would be _really weird_."

Arthur could have very happily lived his whole entire life without ever thinking that. Even once. Whatever would he do without Sir Elyan to put these sorts of things in his head.

But Iseldir only laughed—a little too hard, and a little too loud, like it was really so ridiculous, like it was really so unthinkable, but honestly, so long as it turned out Emrys wasn't actually _that_ obsessed with him, Arthur would be all right. "Oh, _no_ , Sir Elyan," Iseldir shook his grey head, hard, "no, no, _certainly_ not! Emrys did _not_ learn magic solely for your king. Indeed," he looked down at his own, withered hands, clasped tightly in his lap, "Emrys did not _learn_ magic at all. He was born with it."

 _What?_ Arthur nearly jumped off the log. "That's _impossible_!" Honestly! If this old druid _really_ wanted to spin such stories of Emrys, he would do far better to make it all at least a _bit_ realistic! _Born with magic_! Like Arthur would ever swallow that load of rubbish!

But Iseldir only smiled all the wider. "Oh, yes, but Emrys is rather good at the impossible, Arthur Pendragon. It is something of a specialty of his. You should accustom yourself to that now if you can. It will save you much shock in your future doings with him."

No! Absolutely _not_! This had all gone far enough! Arthur had to draw the line, because he was _not_ going to have _a damn thing_ to do with Emrys, thank you very much, not now, and not ever, because Emrys was _a sorcerer_ , and Arthur didn't go 'round with sorcerers, at all, ever, and sorcerers didn't go 'round with _him_ , and the moment he got back to Camelot, he was going to push this whole thing all the way to the back of his mind and never _ever_ touch it ever again, _ever_ , and that would work, right? That would be fine. Right?

Gwaine suddenly let out a long, low whistle. "You know," he said, "I'm _really_ coming 'round to this Emrys bloke. Sounds a right lark."

Arthur rolled his eyes—he should have known Gwaine wouldn't last much longer with his mouth shut, and of course, he should have known Gwaine would warm right up to Emrys because Gwaine could warm up to a brick wall if he thought it would get under Arthur's skin—before he turned back to Iseldir. "Emrys or not, it's _still_ impossible. It's impossible to be born with magic. All sorcerers have to learn it, and being Emrys doesn't change that." True, Arthur didn't know very much of magic at all, and he knew it, but he knew _this_. Sorcerers had to learn it. Sorcerers had to _choose_ it. Like _the sky is blue_ and _water is wet_ and _sorcerers know the ills and the evils of magic, and they still do it, they still learn it, they still choose it, and that's why they're wrong, that's why they're bad, that's why they're a danger to Camelot, because they know they could destroy the world, and they don't care_.

"That," Iseldir said, simple and calm and very, very firm, "is a fallacy."

"No, it's not!" Arthur snapped right back, before he could stop himself, before he even knew if he wanted to stop himself or not, before he could think _do I really want to pick a fight with a druid right in the middle of a druid camp, do I really want to find myself on the wrong end of a whole lot of magic, is that really the wisest thing I could do right now?_ "It's impossible! Sorcerers can't simply wake up one day and _have it_! That's _not_ the way it works! You've got to _choose it_!"

"Oh?" Iseldir's pale old eyes looked even colder than all the ice and snow around him, but his words only got softer and softer and softer. "And I suppose you think _we've_ chosen it?"

Arthur blinked. _Yes._ Except that didn't sound like the thing he should say, that didn't sound like the thing he should say at all, that actually sounded like the sort of thing that might push Iseldir right over the edge, but what else _could_ he say? It was the truth, wasn't it? " _Haven't_ you?"

"Do you think," Iseldir said, and softer now than ever, hardly a whisper, hardly a breath in the winter air, "do you think I chose this, Arthur Pendragon? Do you think I chose to be cast out? Do you think I chose to be ripped from my homestead? From my life? From my _family_?"

"I—" Arthur shook his head, "—I-I don't—" _I don't understand,_ but he never got that far.

No.

Iseldir didn't _let_ him to get that far.

"Do you think I _chose_ a power I could not control? Do you think I _chose_ to build a whole world in the shadows, on the edges, on the outside? Do you think I chose to be hunted down like an animal? To be trailed and tracked and pursued over mountains and underground? To be _hated_? To be _feared_?" Iseldir's pale old eyes almost burned in his withered, furious face, and the fire only blazed brighter and hotter the longer he looked at Arthur. "I did not come into this world with magic at my fingertips—that falls upon Emrys, and Emrys alone—but magic thrust itself upon me, either way, long before I ever opened a book or recited a spell, long before I ever had the _chance_ to. And if I had not set my shoulders to bear the burden as best I could, it would have crushed me a very long time ago."

But was that really _true_? Was that really, actually true? Arthur couldn't think why Iseldir would _lie_ to him—what would even be the point of that?—and he _looked_ like it was true, like he had meant it, with the fire in his eyes and the fury in his face and the pain, the _ache_ , in his words, he looked like that had all really, actually happened, like that was really the way it had gone.

— _ripped from my homestead,_ it echoed, over and over again, around and around in Arthur's sore head, _ripped from my life, from my family, hunted down like an animal, trailed and tracked and pursued over mountains and underground, magic thrust itself upon me, magic thrust itself upon me, magic thrust itself upon me_ —

"Y-You didn't—?" But Arthur still had to be sure. "You didn't _choose_ it?"

" _No_ ," Iseldir said, and he sounded almost like himself again, simple and calm and very, very firm. The fire had simmered back down to mere ashes and embers, so quickly, Arthur almost wondered if it had ever really burned at all. "No, Arthur Pendragon. _I did_ _not_."

Arthur's head pounded. Sorcerers _didn't_ choose it? Sorcerers _really didn't_ choose it? But his father had _said_ —his father had said to him—his father had _told him_ —

Had his father—Arthur's mouth turned very dry, his heart picked up, too hard and too fast, in his chest, and he knew he was on the brink of a Really Big Thing, and it would be a thing he couldn't take back, it would be a thing he couldn't cast back out once he had let it in, it would be a thing he couldn't un-say or un-think, but he _had_ to think it, he _had_ to say it—had his father got it _wrong_? Had his father made a mistake? Had his father only _thought_ sorcerers could choose it, except he had got it wrong, and sorcerers _couldn't_ really choose it, and _never_ got to choose it, and _never got a choice_?

Was his father _wrong_?

Guinevere leaned, suddenly, up on the log, and so fast Arthur couldn't stop her, so fast, he didn't even know she was going to do it until she had, until she had grabbed the old druid's wrinkled white hand up in her own, and pressed the withered palm to her heart. "I'm so sorry, Iseldir, truly, I am. I—I can't—" she shook her head, and it made her thick, dark curls bounce a bit around her pretty face, "—I can't even imagine what that must have been like for you."

Iseldir looked at Guinevere. He reached out, and he patted the back of her hand, lightly, with his own, before he pulled his arm back again, and dropped his palm down in his lap.

Arthur almost looked away—Iseldir hadn't said a single word, but he had made Arthur feel, oddly, like he had invaded, like he had intruded, like he had pushed and shoved his way into a place he didn't belong. Like he had pushed and shoved his way into a place he should _never_ be within.

Guinevere tipped her head at the old druid. "How old were you? When—" she lightly bit her bottom lip, "—when your magic—?"

Iseldir clasped his hands in his lap again. "Twelve winters."

"Twelve winters!" The words had tumbled out of Arthur's mouth before he even knew he was going to say it at all. Twelve winters? Only twelve winters? So much magic at only _twelve winters_? Now that Iseldir had put it in his head, he couldn't get it back out again. "But that's _so young_!" No more than a boy! No more than a mere child!

"No," Iseldir said, but gently now, "no, that is _ordinary_. That is the ordinary age for magic to manifest itself."

"It _is_?" Arthur wasn't so sure he believed it. _Twelve winters_. _Only twelve winters._ Only twelve winters in the whole world before magic showed up. That was far too early to _choose_. Wasn't it? Sorcerers _didn't_ choose. Sorcerers never _got_ to choose. Sorcerers never got the chance to choose. Sorcerers never got the chance to say _no, thanks, why don't you go off and manifest in somebody else._ Sorcerers never got to cast magic off like a heavy cloak or quilt. Sorcerers had to stick with it and make the best of it.

Sorcerers didn't get a choice.

 _Like kings don't get a choice, like I didn't get a choice,_ and a sharp burst of real, actual pity tugged hard at Arthur's heart. At least _he_ had known he would have to take the throne one day. At least he'd had his entire life to make himself ready for it. Sorcerers didn't even get _that_. Iseldir hadn't gotten that. _Emrys_ hadn't gotten that.

"Well—" Guinevere cut in, all of a sudden, her chin up, her brown eyes bright, her shoulders very straight and very taut under her thick woolen cloak and purple dress, "—well, right now, we could _really_ do with some help. Do you believe Emrys would aid us in the battle to come if we asked it of him?"

Arthur's stomach jolted, and he nearly shot straight up off the log again. " _Aid_ us?" Even if Emrys _had_ backed him up in battle before—and that, honestly, _still_ looked like a pretty big _if_ , at least so far as he could see—he couldn't very well stroll on up to a sorcerer and _ask for aid_! What would he even say? _Hello, good day to you, tell me, if it's not too much trouble, do you think you could pitch in and lend a hand? I need to get my throne back from a mad witch, and oh, by the way, magic is very, very outlawed in my kingdom so as soon as the fight is through, I'll have to execute you by law. Even though you apparently didn't actually choose it, even though you apparently had no choice in it at all. Sorry! Sucks to be you!_

Hell, Arthur would be lucky if he made it back in one piece! Because he was pretty sure Emrys would blast him to bits before he got even one word out of his mouth! Didn't matter if the man had _chosen_ magic or not, he could still _kill with it_!

"Well. Yes." But Iseldir said it far too slowly, and he didn't sound very sure of himself, and Arthur _did not_ like that _at all_. "Yes, indeed, Guinevere, I'm nothing short of sure he _would_ , but," he got even slower now, "I-I do not believe he _can_."

 _What?_ Arthur felt his lips tug down at the edges in a little frown. _That_ didn't sound right.

"But," Guinevere wrinkled her dark brow—looked like her mind had gone the same way as Arthur's own—and she leaned up a little more on the log, "but you said he's the _greatest sorcerer in the world_. If even _he_ can't overpower Morgana—"

 _If he can't overpower Morgana, if Morgana is greater than even the greatest, Camelot really has no chance_ , except that was ridiculous, that was a ridiculous thing to think, because _obviously_ , even if Emrys _could_ do it, even if Emrys _could_ overpower Morgana, even if Emrys _could_ crush her with a snap of his fingers, that obviously didn't mean he _would_. Even if Iseldir didn't seem to think so, Emrys could very well hate Arthur with all he had in him. And that would be absolutely fine, because Camelot certainly didn't _need_ Emrys, thank you very much. Arthur and his knights could handle Morgana well enough with _out_ this sorcerer to pop up and shout some gibberish. Hell, he already _had_ handled Morgana well enough with _out_ Emrys! He certainly didn't need a hand _now_!

Iseldir's lips twitched at the edges, like he had to fight back a laugh. "Oh, no, no, Guinevere," he said, instead, but a smile did dangle lightly at the corner of his mouth, "no, it seems I have misled you. And I am sorry for that. Emrys _can_ overpower the witch. Indeed, he _has_ overpowered her, even, and a great many times, too. Perhaps—" he raised his brows, "—perhaps you recall the immortal soldiers she set upon the kingdom?"

" _What?"_ Arthur almost got up. _Again_. No! That was _not Emrys_! That was _not_ some _mysterious sorcerer in the shadows_! That was _him_! That was the Knights of Camelot! _They_ had saved the kingdom! Not Emrys! Not a sorcerer! The knights! Sharp blades and cold steel had slain the soldiers! _Not_ magic! Certainly not magic!

"That—?" But Guinevere's eyes had gotten very wide and very round in her face—oh, for God's sake, she didn't really, actually believe a word of this rubbish, did she?—and her words hardly got louder than the barest whisper. "That was _him_?"

Iseldir nodded. "Alone, and entirely unaided, he conquered the undead. Alone and unaided, he faced Morgana. He dueled her, and it did not take him long to triumph over her. At his hand, Camelot lived to see another dawn."

At _Emrys'_ hand? That was not the way Arthur remembered it! Absolutely not!

"Iseldir," Guinevere said, and she looked serious, in a slow and steady sort of way Arthur didn't think he had ever seen in her before, "Iseldir, tell me, are you absolutely sure of this?" She leaned up, her hands clasped on her knees until her knuckles turned pale and all the veins stood out under her skin. "Are you _absolutely sure_ this is true? Emrys saved us from the immortal army? You're sure of that?"

Iseldir blinked. "Certainly, Guinevere, I am sure. Even the smallest child within this camp could tell you that tale." The corners of his mouth turned up in a full smile now. "I must admit, it is rather a favorite among us. It was a great honor he bestowed upon us when he returned the Cup to our care."

Wait. _The Cup_? "He gave that _back to you_?" Arthur really _did_ jump up on his feet now, his heart pounding furiously fast in his chest and a flush of scorching hot fury in his face, his blood at a boil in his veins. Did Emrys even _know_ the headache it had been to lay hands on the Cup at all? Did Emrys understand, _could_ Emrys understand, even, the absolute, enormous risk he and Merlin had taken to get a hold of the thing? To push into King Cenred's lands? To chance an all-out war with King Cenred himself? All for nothing? All so Emrys could turn right around again and—

—and—

— _wait._

Arthur stopped dead.

If Emrys had come here, and he had handed the Cup back over to the druids, the Cup had made it. The Cup was still all right. The Cup was still whole.

That meant Merlin had _lied_.

Merlin had lied to him. Merlin had lied to him about the Cup. Merlin had told him the Cup had gotten destroyed. Merlin had told him the Cup couldn't withstand the battle. Merlin had told him Morgana's magic had ripped the Cup apart, torn it all to bits and pieces, and, God, he had said _I'm sorry, Arthur, it's gone_ , but if Iseldir was right, if the Cup was really here, that was a _lie_ , Merlin had _lied_ —

Iseldir bowed his grey head. "I know you longed to possess it, Arthur Pendragon, but mortal men, and above all, men without magic, simply cannot resist the temptations of it. For there are many, and they are strong indeed. It is too powerful for this world."

Arthur blinked. He felt like he should fight the old druid on that. He felt like he should say, _well, perhaps other men are much weaker than I, because I could do it, I know I could do it, I know I could fight the pull of the Cup, so hand it over, it's mine, it belongs to Camelot, we won it from you_ , except he didn't even _care_. Let Iseldir keep the damn Cup. Let Iseldir say he couldn't have it, let Iseldir say he shouldn't have it, he didn't care, he didn't even want it anymore, he had only wanted it at all to keep it out of Cenred's greedy, grasping hands. And he had a far bigger thing than a fancy little goblet stuck in his mind. "My servant," he said, at last, and far slower than he wanted, far slower than he really meant to, "my servant told me Morgana blew the Cup to bits. He said not a shard survived." But Merlin had magic. Merlin had magic, too. He had known about the Cup's power, hadn't he? He had known, and he had known he couldn't fight it, and maybe it had scared him, maybe it had made him believe no one in Camelot could fight it, maybe it had made him believe only the druids could be trusted with it, so he had lied to Arthur and turned around and handed the Cup off to Emrys, and _oh, God, that means Merlin knows Emrys, doesn't it, that means Merlin really knows_ —

"Oh, _Arthur_ ," Guinevere got to her feet, too, her chin tipped up to look him dead in the eye, her fisted hands jammed on her hips, and her pale purple skirt all bunched up under her clenched fingers, "don't you see? Don't you _see it_ yet?"

Arthur didn't like the way she said it. He didn't like the way looked at him right now—like she couldn't believe he hadn't caught on as quick as her, like he was blind, like he was stupid, like he was an idiot—and the words fell far harsher from his mouth than he really meant it to. "See _what_?"

"Open your eyes!" Guinevere raked a hand through her thick, dark curls. "Merlin _is_ Emrys!"

It should have come as a shock.

It should have slammed him straight in the chest and right in the heart, it should have hit like a stone, like a boulder, like a bolt loosed too soon from the bow. It should have dropped down on him like a rock, like the sharp side of a sword hanging over his head. It should have cut him up all to pieces and left him to pick himself up and put himself back together all over again. It should have hit him hard. It should have rattled him right down to his core. It should have crushed him flat.

It was the last thing in the whole world Arthur had ever expected to hear.

So it should have come as a shock.

But.

That was the thing.

It _didn't_.

Mostly because Arthur didn't really believe it at all—he could swallow a lot of things, he could swallow a whole hell of a lot of things, like _Merlin has magic but I don't think he's actually working for Morgana, I don't think he wants to kill me, I don't think he hates me, I think he might actually be on my side,_ and _I think the greatest sorcerer in the world is also on my side, too, a little bit, maybe,_ and _sorcerers don't get a choice, sorcerers don't get to choose to be sorcerers, it's just dropped on them all of a sudden, out of nowhere, and they have to learn to live with it as best they can, like Iseldir_ , but _this_ —

 _Merlin is Emrys,_ and it dropped down into his mind like it might drop down into a fresh fall of new snow, so cold and clear and thick, Arthur hardly felt it at all. So cold and clear and thick, it barely made even a little bit of a dent in the blank, white heap. _Merlin is Emrys._ It tumbled into his head like it would tumble down onto a pile of soft ivory cotton, or a jumble of thick, fluffy feathers. _Merlin is Emrys. Merlin is Emrys._ Arthur tried the words out in his mind because he didn't think he actually wanted anyone around him to hear it. He didn't think he wanted anyone in the world to hear it. If he said it out loud, he knew he would make it real. He didn't think he was ready for that.

 _Merlin is Emrys._ He tried it again. _Merlin is Emrys. Merlin is Emrys._ It sounded funny, with all the snow and cotton and feathers to deaden it down. Muffled. Muted. Far away. _Merlin is Emrys._

Except Arthur wasn't entirely sure Merlin _could_ be Emrys.

Merlin tripped over his own boots. Merlin was complete rubbish with a sword. Merlin couldn't scrub a floor or make a bed right. Merlin always looked like he had clambered out of a swampy, mucky bog deep in the wood. Merlin talked to the horses in the stables, and Arthur's hounds in the kennels, like he would talk to real, actual people who could really, actually understand him, and talk back to him. Merlin loved sunflowers and honeybees and butterflies.

Emrys was the greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth. Emrys was the champion of magic. Emrys was the master of life and death. Emrys was the last High Lord and Priest of the Old Religion. Emrys was the sole defender of all Albion. Emrys was born with magic.

No man could be both.

"The immortal soldiers?" Guinevere arched her dark brows at him. "That was _Merlin_."

"No," Arthur said, but that sounded funny, too, muffled and muted and far away, "no, that was us. That was us. The knights."

"That was _Merlin_!" Guinevere said, again, even louder now. "That was Merlin! Don't you see? It's _all_ Merlin! He saved us! He's _been_ saving us for—" she bit her bottom lip, and shook her head, side to side, slow and sad, "—for a long time now, I think."

"No," Arthur said, all muffled, all muted, and it seemed everything in the whole world right now sounded like that, muffled and muted, too dim, too faint, too dulled with the snow and the cotton and the feathers.

But Gwaine looked like he had lit up from the inside out, brighter than a lantern in the night. "That means Merlin's all right!" He straightened up on the log across the fire. "That means Merlin's all right, doesn't it? That's got to mean he's all right! He's the greatest sorcerer in the world! _And_ he's kicked Morgana's ass loads of times before! Ha! Bet he's already sent her and her sad-sack soldiers packing, and he's on his way tous right now!"

Elyan rolled his eyes. "Come off it, Gwaine, even if Merlin really _is_ Emrys, we can't count on him _or_ his magic to get us out of this."

"Why _not_?" Gwaine crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Maybe _you've_ got your head way too far up your own ass to notice, but Merls was pretty incredible even _before_ he turned out to have loads of magic on his hands, so I don't see why he—"

"—yeah, yeah, I get it, we all get it, Merlin's great, Merlin's wonderful, Merlin's amazing, you're madly in love with Merlin, you would marry Merlin tonight if you could, you don't need to go on about him _again_ —"

"The Dorocha!" Guinevere cut in. "The Dorocha, Arthur, don't you remember?" She reached up to grab his arm, but the warm touch of her hand on his skin felt muffled, muted, dim, faint, _dulled_. "The Dorocha? The veil? Merlin saved you! Remember? The Dorocha would have hit you, only Merlin pushed you back, and _he_ —"

"No," Arthur said, again, because he couldn't stop it, he couldn't, but the Dorocha, the cold deep under his skin, all the way down to his bones, the screams and wails of the dead, and the fear a hard, tight knot in his chest, and Merlin's hands on his shoulder, Merlin's hands shoving shoving shoving him back, shoving him down, and the grey mist all around Merlin, _inside_ Merlin, and his body sliding down the wall and the awful thud as he slammed to the stone floor and he had said _take me with you, please, take me with you,_ he had actually, honestly _begged_ Arthur to _let him die_ for Camelot, and he had said _what is the life of a servant compared to that of a prince_ and all the snow and all the cotton and all the feathers in all the world couldn't dull _that_ down.

"—instead, and oh, the poison, don't you remember that, Arthur, the poison, with Lord Bayard, and he wouldn't let you drink it, he was the one to—and we all thought he was going to die and—"

The poison. Arthur's stomach jolted. The poison in the wine. The poison in the wine, and he had said _I'll drink it,_ because even all the way back then, he had known his skinny, plucky little servant with his ridiculous ears and his enormous innocent eyes shouldn't have to risk his life like that, and he had reached out to snatch the chalice, only Merlin had jerked it away and pushed him back and said _no, no, I'll do it, I'll drink it_ , and he lifted the golden goblet to his lips and drained it to the last damn drop so Arthur _couldn't_ —

"—and the _other_ immortal soldiers, too, don't you remember, Arthur, the skeletons, and you could hit them, but they wouldn't fall, your sword would just go right through and stick in the bones, and Merlin—" Guinevere bit her bottom lip again, and cast a quick glance over at Iseldir, "—wait, that _was_ Merlin, right?"

Iseldir nodded and folded his wrinkled hands up in his lap again. "You see much your eyes do not show you, Guinevere. Do not lose that. It will serve you well."

Arthur swallowed a little bit too hard, to try and shove the snow and cotton and feathers back down inside him. The immortal soldiers. The skeletons. The poison. The afanc. The wind in the tunnels when he had killed the afanc. He had pushed it to the back of his mind, the sharp gust, the way the flames almost leaped off his torch and devoured the slimy earthen creature, he had pushed it to the back of his mind, he had told himself _it wasn't magic, it wasn't magic at all, and the only magic I did feel came off the afanc, only the afanc, it was only the afanc_ , but the moment the wind had whipped by, he had _known_ it was _more_.

And he had known it was more when Guinevere's father had gotten better. He had known it wasn't her. He had known it wasn't so simple as that. He had known it was more. Even with the poultice under the pillow, he had known it wasn't so simple, he had known it was more, and Merlin had said _it was me, I used magic to cure Gwen's father, Gwen is not the sorcerer_ , _I am_ , and oh, Christ, he had actually _meant_ it, hadn't he? That _wasn't_ a lie he had made up to get Guinevere off, like Arthur had always thought. That wasn't a lie he had made up because he fancied her.

No, that was the truth. That was _real_.

Merlin _was_ Emrys.

That was the truth.

That was real.

Arthur collapsed back down on the log. He didn't want to. He didn't mean to. He didn't even know he was going to do it at all. Like a great weight had crashed down on him, slammed into him, and it was all he could do, to fall right back in his seat again, with a faint, faraway thump of hard wood on the backs of his knees. _Merlin is Emrys. Merlin is Emrys. Merlin is Emrys._ With all the snow, with all the cotton and feathers, he had to try it out a hundred thousand times in the quiet of his own mind before he could really be sure. _Merlin is Emrys. Merlin is Emrys._

That was the truth.

That was real.

Wasn't it?

The Dorocha. The Isle of the Blessed. The Cup of Life. The poisoned wine. The skeletons. The afanc. Guinevere's father. The knife at the feast. Valiant's shield— _I didn't summon you,_ the knight had hissed to the serpents, _what are you doing, go back, I didn't summon you,_ and Arthur had pushed it to the back of his mind, like the afanc, like the wind, like Guinevere's father, he had told himself _Valiant lost control of the magic, that's it, that's all, Valiant got cocky, he got overconfident, he thought he had it all figured out, but he didn't, he was wrong, so the snakes got out and he couldn't shut them back in again_ , but that was wrong, that was all wrong, because it wasn't Valiant, it was Merlin, wasn't it, the shield, the snakes, _what are you doing, I didn't summon you_ , it was Merlin, wasn't it?

And the way the branches ripped off the trees right as bandits rushed underneath, and the way Merlin would disappear for hours, for days, even, and everything would be all right again when he finally showed back up, and the way he had told Arthur _I don't think you should have killed that unicorn, I think it was cruel, I think it was wrong,_ but he had still tracked down the old man with Arthur, _for_ Arthur, and he had still gotten Arthur a second chance to lift the curse, and save the kingdom, and he had still gone with Arthur, down into the Labyrinth, and he had still tried to drink poison for Arthur, _again_.

It was all Merlin.

All the lucky breaks, all the impossible escapes, all the incredible, unbelievable twists and turns of fate, and it was _Merlin_ , it was _all Merlin_ , and if he only walked one way long enough, he would come right back to Merlin, it would all come right back to Merlin, all the roads would lead him right back to Merlin, all the paths would end with Merlin, and Arthur could finally see it, like a thick veil lifted off his head, like a mist, like a haze, rubbed out of his eyes, like a bright light in endless dark.

Merlin.

It was all Merlin.

And Merlin— _I did everything for you, it was all for you, it was you, it was always, always you_ and _I use it for you, only for you, it's yours, I'm yours_ , and that _wasn't_ a lie, that wasn't a lie at all, a whole lot of pretty words poured in his ears to win him back over, to blind him to the truth, to get his trust back, no, no, that wasn't all smoke and mirrors, that was the truth, that was _real_ , Merlin had really, actually _meant it,_ and Arthur could finally _see._

Merlin was _his friend_.

And Merlin was a damn _good_ friend. Merlin was the best and most loyal friend he had ever had, Merlin had always listened to him, Merlin had always stayed loyal to him, Merlin had always stayed at his side, Merlin had never left him, Merlin had never walked away, and Arthur knew he had never made it easy, Arthur knew he wasn't easy to stay with, Arthur _knew_ he wasn't easy to love, but Merlin had dug in his heels and stayed with him and loved him, even when he was a complete prat, even when he was a right dollophead or a real clotpole or an absolute ass, Merlin had still stuck around, Merlin had still stayed with him, and—

— _and I shut him down in a dark dungeon and I left him there and I didn't listen to him, I wouldn't listen to him, I didn't let him talk to me, I didn't let him explain, I didn't let him say a word, and he's always listened to me, he's always let me talk, he's never done that to me, he's never not listened to me, he's always been there for me, always, and I wasn't there for him, I didn't stay at his side, I didn't stick around, I left him, I said horrible things to him, I blamed him for everything_ —

Oh. Oh, _God_. What if this was it? What if that was the straw that broke the camel's back? What if he had pushed Merlin away forever? For good? What if Merlin hated him now? What if Merlin didn't even want to see him ever again? What if Merlin walked away and never looked back? What if he had lost Merlin? What was he going to do if he lost Merlin? What was he going to do if he had lost Merlin because he was too blind and stupid and wrapped up in himself to open his eyes and _look_?

If it was the other way 'round, if Merlin had let him down like that, if Merlin hadn't listened to him, if Merlin had left him, if Merlin had blamed him, if Merlin had said such cruel things to him, he knew he would hate Merlin. He knew he would. He would walk away, and he would never look back, let Merlin see if he liked it, let Merlin see the way it felt when the tables had turned, let Merlin see the way it felt to get left behind, to get treated like dirt on his boots.

Arthur would hate Merlin. If it was the other way 'round. Arthur would never forgive Merlin, if it was the other way 'round, and if Merlin tried to say _sorry_ , Arthur would spit in his face and tell him to find some other poor fool to reel in, because this was over, he was through, he would never, ever come back, he would never, ever be Merlin's friend again.

What if _Merlin_ did that to _Arthur_?

Just thinking about it made Arthur's heart twist up in his chest. If he lost Merlin, _again_ , he really didn't know what he would do.

If he lost Merlin, again, he would absolutely deserve it.

* * *

 **Notes:** **at this point, i'm just lucky y'all don't go "new phone, who dis" every damn time i post a new chapter rghjgfghgfvb also my anglo-saxon's very rusty so i might be wrong but as far as i can remember, 'undeadlic' means 'immortal, untouched by death' and 'godbearn' means 'divine, blessed, child of the gods' and 'bealucræft cyning' literally means 'magic king' because im just so original like that.**

 **anyways! thanks so much for sticking with me, i know i don't make it easy. let's hope we can wrap this fic up soon, and then y'all can be free!**


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